


Capture Every Minute

by orphan_account



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assumed Character Death, Auguste Lives, Canon Divergence, Deaf Character, Deaf Damen, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, civil unrest in Akielos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-05 08:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11574195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Damianos of Akielos is heading to Vere in hopes to secure an alliance in the face of civil unrest in Akielos, at the hands of his brother.  Although uncertain about the king, Damen hopes to gain favour with the crowned prince, Auguste.  What he doesn't expect is the attention of the younger prince, Laurent, who plays his cards close to his chest.  Though Damen tries to stay focused on the task at hand, he finds it difficult when his heart threatens to beat out of his chest at every quirk of the younger prince's smile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this is kind of helping me get through this weekend. I'm updating from a tablet so if anything's wonky, I promise to fix it once I'm back home.
> 
> 1- there's not enough Deaf characters in Captive Prince fic. 2- I'm basing Akielon sign after BSL which is my first language--though we can assume it was probably nothing alike but... *shrug*. It'll be written in English grammar, though assume they're using sign grammar which is completely different.
> 
> Warnings head of chapters if necessary. I'll post to tumblr once I get home. x

“Why was father scowling through the meeting?”

Auguste looked up from his desk, his quill stilling, and he let out a tiny snort. “Displeased he must show some diplomacy to the Akielons.”

Laurent’s eyebrows rose just a little, just enough for Auguste to read the confusion in his expression. “He’s never shied away from it before. He’s harped enough with you, hasn’t he?” Laurent pitched his voice in a mockery of his father’s. “Auguste, the trick to being a good king is to know when diplomacy is needed, even if we do not agree with those we must be diplomatic with.”

Auguste’s lips twitched, and he absently twisted the ring on his finger—the promise of his bride, the wedding which was to happen the following spring. He attempted to look disapproving at Laurent’s mockery, but could not bring himself to do so. “The Akielons…”

“Yes, yes,” Laurent said, a little bored and exhausted of his father’s old prejudices. “Barbarians.”

“It’s not entirely that.” Auguste twirled the quill between his thumb and forefinger, watching the light glint off the shining feathers before dropping it to the paper and turning his chair to face his brother properly. “What do you know of them?”

“I’ve been studying Akielon…” Laurent began, but Auguste’s head-shake interrupted his words.

“The family, Laurent.”

Laurent shrugged one shoulder, and he lifted his leg to hook over the arm of the chair, sitting lazy and improper. He ignored his brother’s scoff as he said, “There is civil unrest at times. Theomedes has named his son Damianos crowned prince, as he should have. His eldest, Kastor, is the bastard.”

“Do you know why people are displeased?” Auguste urged.

Laurent shrugged. “Not entirely. My job is not to study something I shall have no part in.”

Auguste looked mildly annoyed, but crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side. “There are pockets of the country who feel Kastor would be a better fit as a ruler. Father disagrees, but he’s uneasy because he feels neither brother is an acceptable choice to run a country.”

“Why is that?” Laurent asked, his interest now vaguely piqued. Their countries rarely interacted since the treaty was signed after the battle at Marlas. Laurent and Auguste’s uncle was killed, and Auguste had been gravely injured, though by a miracle, he had survived. At eighteen, Laurent had given very little thought to those across the mountains until now.

“The son, Damianos, is clever, a good fighter, and he’ll make a fair ruler,” Auguste said slowly. “But many see him as flawed.”

“Because he failed to run you through?” Laurent asked, a slight edge to his voice.

Auguste sighed, his hand absently touching the scar on his side. “He didn’t wish to kill me, nor did I wish to kill him, Laurent. There are always casualties in battle, and we must be thankful we didn’t have to mourn more than a few men.”

Laurent swallowed thickly, then nodded. “Fair enough. Why is he flawed, then?”

“Because he cannot hear.”

Laurent blinked, not sure he’d understood his brother’s words properly. “He cannot…”

“Deaf,” Auguste said, his lips curving unfamiliarly round the Akielon word for it, his accent terrible. They had a word for it in Vere, of course, but Laurent had never met a Deaf person before—though Laurent had met very few people outside of the palace. “He has been, since an illness in infancy. Many believe it’s a reflection of his intelligence, but they’re wrong. Father…”

“Agrees with them,” Laurent said with a resigned sigh.

Auguste bit his lip, then shrugged. “Father has some outdated beliefs as King, ones I will do my best not to carry to my crown. Father, however, would never trust a bastard who ascended the throne. He’s worried there will be more than just civil unrest when Theomedes dies.”

“A civil war,” Laurent said.

Auguste gave one, slow nod. “A civil war. Should Kastor gain enough momentum through militia and popular opinion…”

“Which, I suppose, won’t be too difficult to imagine if they all believe the crowned prince is…unfit to rule.” Laurent’s head was spinning now, almost desperate to meet his prince, to see for himself exactly the sort of man he was, and what sort of king he might become.

“He’s coming here, to further talk about future trade routes and treaties. Father is reluctant, but wishes to see the sort of man he’s grown into now that Theomedes’ health is failing. He must decide if he should prepare for peace to collapse.”

Laurent could hardly imagine it. There were always skirmishes, but it had been so long since there had been a full-blown war. Not since Marlas, since he nearly lost everything. It turned his stomach, and he breathed out slowly. “He’s coming alone?”

“With a retinue of men, of course.”

Laurent bit the inside of his cheek, then asked, “Is he married?”

Auguste regarded him with some laughter in his eyes. “It’s not like you to worry about such things, Laurent.”

“Don’t insult me, Auguste. I’m merely curious the sort of man he is.” Laurent could feel the heat in his cheeks, knew his pale skin would make the mottled pink stand out, but Auguste was pragmatic enough not to draw attention to it.

“He was engaged to be married, but that recently fell to pieces. I don’t know the details. Chances are he will remain unwed until he ascends the throne. Shall I tell father you’re interested.”

“I’m interested in no one, and it will remain that way,” Laurent said stiffly. It wasn’t entirely true. Laurent had fancied men in the past—but mostly out of curiosity and they had all been so fleeting. At eighteen, though he knew he should be considering marriage and his life after his brother took the throne, it all seemed so…uninteresting. “And it seems silly to think of such things when there is much more to consider, Auguste. Like what this might mean for Vere if there is a civil war in Akielos.”

“We shall deal with that, should the time approach.”

“Would you offer them aid?” Laurent couldn’t help himself from asking.

Auguste smiled. “I suppose we shall see, little brother, what sort of man the Akielon truly is.”

*** 

Damen was the first to notice the creek, and directed the men through the trees to give their horses drink and rest with a sharp hand gesture. He ignored the pointed, annoyed look on Nikandros’ face who was not keen on taking any more time on the road than he had to be. He’d fought the trip to Vere with every ounce of his resistance, but Damen knew this trip was necessary.

Things with Kastor were not settling down, and the rumours reached Damen now with a disturbing frequency. Militia launching attacks on villages, sending messages that would reach the crowned prince—Akielos would not tolerate a king who was not whole.

Damen had no doubts in his ability to run the country. He could do everything any man could do—better, usually—except one thing: hear. It had never been such a problem until now. Until Jokaste fled his bed for his brother’s and Kastor abandoned the palace, and his father fell ill.

Damen had no time to let his alliances weaken. The strongest they had was Vere, and he knew he must gain favour with the king and his son before it was too late.

Dismounting, Damen handed his reigns off to one of the other men, then stretched his back. His legs ached from the ride, but he was nearly as anxious as Nikandros to reach Arles. He’d been corresponding with Prince Auguste now for the better part of half a year, and his visit was welcome. There would be a party in his honour, and then several talks regarding their treaty, and how to strengthen it.

Damen would not leave the city until he was certain that if Kastor made a move against him or his father, that he had the strength to beat him back.

His heart ached knowing what—most likely—he would have to do, but he didn’t want to think about that now.

‘Your face.’

Nikandros’ fingers moving in his periphery drew Damen out of his thoughts, and he turned, feeling a sigh rip from his chest. ‘What about it?’

Nikandros rolled his eyes, but he didn’t answer the question, instead asking, ‘When do we ride again? We’re close.’

Damen glanced up at the fading sun, and then at the road which stretched at least another day. ‘Camp now. Food and rest. We can ride out at dawn.’

Nik didn’t look pleased, but turned and Damen could see his jaw working as he gave orders to the men. Damen appreciated, above all, their loyalty. He had grown up with people fearing his deafness—fearing it was catching, fearing he was incompetent, fearing the sound of his own voice when he chose to use it. But he did his best to cultivate loyalty in his men, and so far it had paid off.

Far better than Kastor, who attempted to gain favour with false promises and, when that failed, threats.

It wasn’t long before there was a fire going, and Damen had settled down with the men, a plate of food between his hands. He watched everyone settle—a few of them still tending the horses, but most of them near the fire with their bedrolls and suppers. Their mouths moved in chatter Damen couldn’t follow—he’d attempted to learn early in life, but it had been one of the things he could never master.

The language of sign had been all he’d known—his parents and even Kastor had picked it up and used it freely. But it was rare when Damen could find anyone willing to gain fluency. Until he met Nikandros. They’d trained together, and after each gruelling session in the ring, Damen would take him into the back gardens and teach him.

Nikandros’ position as the head of his guard had never changed, but Nikandros was so much more, and had never wavered. Nikandros had been a brother—in the end—far more than Kastor could ever hope to be. He was filled with bittersweet loyalty, wishing Kastor had only given him a chance. Damen would have never let him have less, let him suffer. 

‘Your brother?’ Nik asked, drawing Damen out of his thoughts.

Damen snorted a laugh, shrugging. ‘When is it not?’

Nik pulled a face, then elbowed him. ‘Think of the Vere alliance instead. Though I still don’t understand why we must attempt to align ourselves with such…’

Damen raised his hand, stopping Nik. ‘You know why, Nik.’

Nikandros’ shoulders heaved with a sigh. ‘They are pretentious, and rude. They believe us barbarians, and there’s no telling what they will think of you.’

At times, Nikandros’ honesty stung, though Damen would always appreciate him for it. ‘I don’t know about the King, but I believe the prince will be a strong ally. He’s kind, and he’s understanding.’

‘I don’t trust them. I will _never_ trust a Veretian,’ Nik signed, his hands wide with emphasis.

Damen laughed again. ‘I admire your fortitude and determination. But you trust me.’

‘I do,’ Nik signed, hesitated, then, ‘God help me.’

Damen smiled widely, elbowed him, then set his plate aside and settled back. The stars were out, bright, and he decided he would take that as a good omen.

*** 

The rest of the journey to Vere was long, the spring weather creeping into summer quick enough that it was humid, making the men sweaty in their riding armour. Damen could not imagine living in Vere like this, in their tight, restrictive clothing. As it was, he was fighting off the urge to strip down to his chiton alone, and the thought only passed when he could see the gates to Arles ahead.

They’d sent a runner to announce their presence, and it was no surprise to see a guard on horseback waiting to escort them. He turned to look at Nikandros, who nodded, prepared to play his role of Damen’s voice. Nikandros’ had studied his Veretian dialect now for the better part of the year in order to play this role, and Damen owed him.

They came to a stop in front of the head guard, his armour shining, the plume on his helmet bright and royal blue. He took it off, tucking it under his arm as he gave a short bow. He was pale-skinned, like all Veretians, though he was more tan from spending an obvious amount of time in the sun.

Though he was not strictly Damen’s type, it was plain he was attractive. His dark hair fell in loose curls over his forehead, his light eyes piercing—clearly intelligent, calculating as he assessed all of Damen’s men. His fingers, thin and strong, curled round the reigns of his horse as he inclined his head in a bow, and his mouth worked over Veretian words Damen could not hope to understand.

He turned his head, watching Nikandros’ fingers flick through the translation. “Prince Damianos, it’s a pleasure to see you’ve arrived safely. The King and Prince Auguste are awaiting your arrival.”

‘Thank you,’ Damen signed, staring at the guard though he could see Nikandros translating in the corner of his eye. ‘I look forward to making their acquaintance.’

The guard only looked vaguely uneasy by the signs, which bode well for Damen had seen far worse reactions from his own people. It wasn’t long before the guard turned, leading the way down the streets, past curious on-lookers who were probably getting their first-ever glimpse of Akielon royalty in person.

Damen offered kind smiles to them all, and was pleased to see the kindness reflected back, even if they seemed unsure. The journey to the palace, thankfully, didn’t last long, and there was another guard waiting with servants to stable the horses as Damen and his men dismounted.

Nik was at his side instantly, shoulders drawn back and tall as they approached the stairs where they would make audience with the king. Though Damen had been made familiar with the royal family, the portraits he’d had copies of were clearly old, because what he saw before him were nothing like he’d seen.

The King himself was older, much like his father with his age showing in his eyes, and in the downturn of his mouth. He stood regal, however, and much like his sons with fair hair and light skin. Auguste was to his right, taller than his father, broader than Damen remembered from battle. His hair was clipped short, puffed slightly round the edges of his circlet, and he was laced tight in his thick blues and reds.

The third, Damen had not expected to be there, and was so far unlike his portrait it was almost startling. Damen had seen the second son, Laurent, as a seven year old boy with wide eyes and a sharp frown to his mouth. But now he stood, a man himself, filled out in all the right places with soft blonde hair, worn long over his shoulder, and a faint red tinge to his pale cheeks. His eyes betrayed his level of intelligence—though Damen suspected Laurent never tried to hide it. He was calculating, watching every single move every one of Damen’s men made.

The attraction hit him, fierce and sudden. Though he was here for peace, to secure his ally, he wondered of maybe his plans weren’t about to be slightly derailed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this right before my flight. I am now home, and getting settled back in, I have four weeks off before my autumn term starts which means much writing fanfic before grad school hell takes over my life again. No warnings for this chapter, just more slow burn.
> 
> As I mentioned before, the signs I'm using are BSL but you're more than welcome to imagine them in whatever sign dialect you know.

The banquet was customary and Laurent was unsurprised to be ushered in with the rest of his family to a long table set up in the dining hall. Foods from both Vere and Akielos were served on large platters, though he put very little on his plate. His appetite was dimmed by the arrival of their guests, his desire to watch and learn far outweighing anything else at the moment.

Laurent was seated to the right of his brother, and he had a partially obscured view of the Akielon guests. Most of the crown prince’s men had been left to the lower tables, but he had his right hand with him in order to provide interpretation.

Laurent’s first impression of Damianos of Akielos was one of vague awe—he was large, several inches taller than Auguste, and much wider. More of his body was on display than Laurent felt appropriate, but it was nice to have such a wide expanse of skin to study him. His tone was a very dark olive, far darker than most in Vere, and his hair sat in loose, deep-black curls which fell over his forehead. His eyes were sharp, watching everything, moving at even the slightest movement which Laurent suspected was to make up for the fact he could not hear.

Part of Laurent had expected Damianos to show something outward in his deafness, but there was no way to tell until he’d raised his hands and twisted them in the complicated signs Laurent could not hope to translate. The interpreter, the man who’d introduced himself as the Kyros, Nikandros, had a thick accent and seemed to struggle with the Veretian, though he did well enough in the end.

There were proper introductions, after all, but Damianos seemed anxious to get into the palace and perhaps behind closed doors to discuss his business with the King and Auguste. Laurent could see his father’s unease with the prince—possibly for the fact he was Akielon, possibly for the fact he could not hear, and Laurent suspected both. He, on the other hand, wanted to know more. He wished to learn as much as he could about this prince, about his own language apart from Akielon, and what, exactly, he hoped to achieve by coming here.

Those thoughts consumed him as the dinner passed. Auguste was far more jovial than the king, easily holding conversation between himself and Damianos—even as Nikandros stood as middle man. Laurent was asked a few questions, which he provided polite answers, but barely heard himself speak for all that he was distracted.

When they served the afters, Laurent suddenly caught Damianos’ gaze. It was deep, intense, encompassing in a way that made heat flare instantly in his chest. He tore his eyes away from the prince, breathing, reminding himself that this man had once attempted to kill Auguste, and must not be so readily trusted.

All the same, it did not stop Laurent from looking back at him when he got the chance, and it did not stop him from blushing hot when he realised every time he dared a look, Damianos was looking back.

*** 

“You were staring all night. Would you like to share your thoughts, Lolo?”

“Don’t,” Laurent said, fixing his brother with a dark look, “call me that.”

Auguste laughed and shook his head. “Laurent, then. Clearly you’re forming opinions.”

“And they matter to you?” Laurent challenged.

Auguste scoffed, rising from his chair and approaching Laurent who was perched on the edge of Auguste’s bed. He flopped down onto the chaise near the end and laid his head on Laurent’s knee. “I have always trusted you. You’ve never led me astray.”

“Except when this happened,” Laurent said, his fingers brushing along Auguste’s side where he knew the scar still sat. It had been a long recovery, one Laurent spent weeks thinking Auguste would not recover from. It had taken him years to get over his anger, he supposed on some level, he still harboured some.

“You were a boy, and I’ve since learnt my lesson,” Auguste said, pressing Laurent’s hand for a moment, then pushing him away. He sat up a little straighter. “I don’t entirely know what he wishes to gain. I know the gist but…”

“Not the nuances,” Laurent finished for him. He bit his lip in thought. “He seems honest, which is unnerving. The Akielons…”

“Perhaps what we know of them,” Auguste interrupted, “has been coloured by an old prejudice.”

Laurent agreed, but didn’t want to be so quick to concede the point, especially when he didn’t know the prince well enough. “There will be games, and a hunt, I’m assuming?”

Auguste shrugged. “Yes. Father is leaving the delegation of the prince’s activities to me. He tells me that it’s to prepare me for diplomatic audience, but I’m more willing to believe he’s uncomfortable.”

Laurent snorted a laugh, but didn’t respond. Instead he pushed up and stretched his back, arching like a cat before dropping his hands to his sides. “I will be keeping an eye on him.”

Auguste chuckled. “You made that very apparent tonight, Laurent. Don’t be surprised if he seeks you out to find out why.” He winked, then bade his brother goodnight.

*** 

Laurent was the sort to find himself in situations of spying more often than not on purpose, but rarely did it happen by such accident. He was exhausted, but his body craved time in the baths, so he let himself past the guards and into the bathing chambers.

He was peering into the cupboard that held their softest linens when he heard a noise, like a deep-chested laugh, and a sort of grunt. Spinning, he pressed his back to the shadows and peered through the crack to see Damianos and Nikandros walking through the doors. Their hands were moving in rapid fire, back and forth, their faces showing all the emotions of their conversation.

Damianos was less quiet in the privacy of the baths than he was at the table, and it was then Laurent realised much of Damianos’ restraint was on purpose. As he spoke now, he gave clips of noise with the mouthed words, hums and sighs, and a chuckling laugh which sent a shiver up Laurent’s spine. It was a feeling he would explore later, but for now his curiosity eclipsed most of that.

The pair were wearing frustrated frowns, and from what Laurent could deduce, Damianos seemed to be ushering his guard away. Nikandros shook his head, made signs sharp and slapping, stomping his foot briefly, but Damianos seemed unwavering. There was a moment, just a breath when Laurent thought perhaps he was caught as Damianos’ eyes flicked toward the cupboard, but then he looked away and his hands ordered Nikandros away.

Laurent slunk back even further, letting out a breath, thinking he would sneak out when the Prince’s back was turned. He could hear the door open and shut, and it was only then Laurent peered out again. There was no sign of Damianos, so Laurent swung the door wide.

Then came to a firm halt.

Damianos was there, sat on one of the benches with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyebrows raised high into his hairline, a wry grin on his lips.

“I…” Laurent began, then realised what he was doing, and he clamped his jaw shut.

Damianos let out a small, huffing laugh through his nose, then rose to his feet and made a, ‘come here,’ gesture to Laurent. Though Laurent felt a sudden need to flee, there were guards directly outside who would investigate should there be untoward noise, and his curiosity made it near impossible for him to walk away from this.

His eyes travelled over Damianos’ form—the loose chiton, the thin sheen of sweat over his brow, the dirt from his journey. Clearly he’d come in for a bath just as Laurent had.

They walked through the doors and into the main room where the bathing pool waited. Steam rose from the clean waters, a gentle breeze rippling along the surface, making the lit torches glint off the marble seats inside.

Damianos hovered near the edge of the pool, then with careful fingers reached up and unpinned the lion clasp from his shoulder. The chiton fell, revealing his full chest bare to Laurent, who turned his gaze away. He understood nudity was part of the Akielon culture. They were a strange bunch, he’d learnt through his studies. Games and socialisation was done largely in the nude, but the idea of sexual acts in front of others was taboo to them.

Laurent supposed Vere was just as strange—their tight laces and not a sliver of skin, but no one bat an eye at the idea of publicly consummated marriages. He wondered now what Damianos thought of it, was frustrated he could not, presently, ask him.

He blinked up a moment later when he heard a splash, and realised that Damianos had let himself into the pool of water. The Akielon let out a low groan as he stretched into the pool of warm water, then made a gesture which Laurent read as, ‘join me.’

His skin tingled with anticipation, with daring. Worry creased his brow—should anyone find him here like this, what they might think. And yet, Laurent could always claim he was sharing in Akielon tradition in order to be diplomatic, and even his father would not fault him for it.

He realised his fingers were reaching for the laces on his jacket before he could stop himself.

Undressing took far longer, and he was under the scrutiny of Damianos’ warm, dark eyes which made the whole thing feel like a production put on for his entertainment. But his gaze was not hungry, not mocking, not threatening. He simply watched, and gave an encouraging smile when Laurent finally removed his boots, and slipped from the tight clothes which pooled away from the edge of the bath.

The water stung his skin momentarily as he slipped in, but it was soothing, his muscles going lax moments after he sank beneath the surface. Damianos’ smile was indulgent and sweet, and Laurent wished desperately he could ask what he was thinking.

Laurent’s greatest weapon was his words, and he was disarmed by merely being in Damianos’ presence and not having access to his language.

He felt daring suddenly, as their gazes met, and Laurent dipped his hand in the water, then lifted it, letting a stream trickle between his fingers before he said, “Water,” in Akielon. Then he pointed at Damianos.

The other man frowned for a moment, and Laurent repeated the gesture until Damianos’ mouth worked, then he cleared his throat and said, “Water,” in Veretian.

Laurent’s eyes widened, startled, but he nodded, then pointed to Damianos’ hands and gave him an expression he hoped was questioning.

Damianos’ hand carefully lifted from the water, and he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, the others sticking out slightly. He drew the pinched edge of his thumb and finger down his cheek twice, then said again in Veretian, “Water.”

Laurent attempted to copy the gesture. It was simple enough, though he didn’t understand how it would mean water until it occurred to him, it was not a pantomime language. The thought startled him, but he was struck by the sudden realisation that there was nuance, there was a structure that he could learn, become fluent in if he chose to, if perhaps an alliance with Damianos was worth it.

He stared at the crown prince, watching the delight in his eyes as Laurent gave a little bit of himself to the man. He wasn’t sure what to think yet, but he was willing to explore a little further.

*** 

As Damianos approached his quarters, he was still reeling a little from the encounter in the bath. In hindsight, he wasn’t especially surprised—he’d noticed the prince watching him all through dinner, and it wasn’t with the same look most people gave him, as though his deafness might be catching. No, the prince studied him with some caution, and curiosity, and something else Damen couldn’t quite read in Laurent’s eyes.

He had, however, thought it would take longer for the prince to seek him out. Possibly the meeting was by chance. He’d noticed the movement in the linen cupboard seconds after Nikandros had, and he’d stopped his friend before Nikandros could confront the potential problem.

‘Stop,’ Damen signed quickly.

Nik gave him an incredulous look. ‘There’s someone watching us.’

‘It’s the prince. The younger,’ Damen explained with quick movements, unworried now, knowing Laurent did not know his language. ‘He’s not a threat.’

Nik scoffed, rolling his eyes. ‘You’re far too trusting. Veretians…’

‘Don’t. We don’t wish them to believe the ridiculous stories they’ve been taught about Akielon, and we should show them the same courtesy. Go back to our quarters and wait for me there. I’ll handle this.’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ Nik insisted, and Damen couldn’t help a small laugh.

‘You don’t think I can take him?’

Nik gave him a long, dark look before turning on his heel and storming out. Damen then had half a mind to confront the younger prince, but instead decided to take a seat on a bench and wait. It did not, in the end, take very long.

Damen knew he was pushing his luck with the prince in the baths. He knew Veretians were open about their love making, but far less about their own bodies. It was plain in Laurent, the way he’d come down to the baths with nearly every inch of skin covered in tight cloth. It was almost a gift, watching him unwrap, drawing down every lace until he stood bare—paler than anyone Damen had ever bedded, so fair he could see blueish veins cascading under his skin.

It was interesting, he supposed. He met with many delegations at his father’s side, but rarely did he ever become so intimate with someone outside of Akielos.

It was as difficult as he imagined, as Laurent sank beneath the waters. Damen had a thousand questions, and although he was capable of voicing them, there was no way for him to understand the answers. Laurent seemed to be looking at him the same way, and it was with startled clarity when Damen realised Laurent was asking—in his rudimentary gestures—to learn the sign for water.

Damen gave it quickly, and offered the word aloud in Veretian to make certain Laurent knew that Damen understood what he was asking. Damen had studied with Nikandros as best he could. He became fluent easily, in their reading and writing, but he could never master the idea of their spoken language. His accent with Akielon was strong enough, but with Veretian he knew it was barely understandable.

All the same, Laurent did not flinch at the sound of his voice, nor did he back away from Damen. Instead his lips turned in a slight smile, and he worked hard to copy everything Damen had showed him that night.

They did not get further than a few signs for bath, for water, for friend. Damen offered his own sign name, and showed Laurent the rudimentary alphabet, an L in place of Laurent’s name. For now, possibly. They stepped out of the bath, a little poached and wrinkled, Laurent’s skin a deep, flushed pink as he reached for the towel, trying to maintain as much modesty as he could.

There were dressing gowns in the linen cupboard, and they adorned them, Damen slipping his lion pin into the pocket, and left his chiton to be gathered by the servants later. They breezed past the guards, smiling at each other every so often, letting their expressions carry the conversation until they reached the end of the corridor.

Pausing in the empty space where they would part ways, Damen hesitated, then signed, ‘Good night,’ his hands slow through the sweeping palms crossing each other in front of his face so Laurent might follow it. He then said, “Good night,” in his best Veretian.

Laurent’s lip quirked again, and he struggled with the sign, but worked through it three times until Damen gave him a satisfied nod. The younger prince hesitated another moment, then gave a bowing nod of his head, and turned, hurrying away.

Damen didn’t not know what to make of it as he reached his own quarters—the way his heart was still pounding a little, or that his skin still tingled from the bath. And he certainly didn’t know what to make of the feeling, deep in his gut, that he desperately hoped for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've created a new Captive Prince side-blog since I know captive prince isn't everyone's cuppa who follows me, so you can come shout at me here, [itwasseven](https://itwasseven.tumblr.com) for Captive Prince fanfic updates and reblogs.


	3. Chapter 3

Laurent spent half the night awake contemplating the conversation he’d had in the baths with Damianos, that when he woke the next morning, it was far later than usual. As he’d missed breakfast with his father and their guests, his own had been delivered to his rooms. He spotted the tray of fruits, cheeses, and breads along with a silver pot of steaming coffee.

He felt an itch under his skin, the desire to find Damianos and learn more than he had, but he understood the crown prince was here on diplomatic business, and it would not do well for him to meddle. And Laurent really did not need to encroach on the prince’s time with the King or Auguste—he was cleverer than that. He supposed he had, in a way, caught the prince’s eye enough that Damianos might seek him out, and that is where Laurent would excel.

He took his time with his breakfast, attended by his servants to dress, and then had a short walk round the gardens before finding himself at the library. It was empty, and the entire palace seemed far too quiet for his liking. He wondered if it was just his nerves, or if there was something else happening.

All the same, he began to peruse the stacks, their section on Akielos. Part of him hoped they might have a book on Akielon sign language, but they didn’t even have a history on it, let alone an instruction manual. He thought briefly about ordering someone to find him a citizen who was proficient I the language, but that would draw attention, and Laurent didn’t want that. Not yet, at least.

Instead, he sat himself at a desk near one of the wide windows overlooking his favourite fountain, and he drew up a quill and parchment. He closed his eyes, recalling the bath the night before—ignoring the hot feeling welling in his gut in favour of remembering the few things Damianos had taught him to say with his hands.

The alphabet. He could remember the letters to his name—or at least some of them. The L, the finger of his right hand pressed to the centre of his left palm. The A, his right forefinger touching his left thumb. The U escaped him, and the R, the e, he was fairly sure was his right forefinger touching his left one, but the T had also been forgotten.

With a sigh, he sat back, and jotted down the words Damianos had showed him. Water, was the first, and perhaps it was one Laurent would never forget. Then there had been bath, towel, hair, and blue—for Laurent’s eyes. Damianos had also given another sign, then had pointed to himself and Laurent had realised that was the sign for the prince. When he’d repeated it back, Damianos had flushed happily, nodding.

It should not have filled Laurent with such pleasure, but it did.

The final had been good night. A thumb up, then the hands sweeping down, right over left, in front of the body.

‘Good night,’ Laurent practised.

There was a small, huffing laugh, and Laurent whipped round, his heart hammering against his ribs when he realised it was Damianos stood there. He looked regal, his chiton purple, adorned in gold. The straps of his sandals cascaded up his shins in an elaborate twist, and his lion pin glinted in the early afternoon light.

His head was cocked to the side, then he swept forward and pointed to the quill Laurent had abandoned, his eyebrows dipped, face expressive like the point was a question.

He wanted to use the quill.

Embarrassed, Laurent quickly flipped the parchment over, then made a, ‘go on’ gesture.

Damianos gave Laurent a bright, easy smile that crinkled in the corners of his eyes before bending low, dipping the quill in ink, and writing—Veretian letters, but in the blocky, Akielon way.

**It isn’t night, you know.**

Laurent took up the parchment, then fixed Damianos with an unimpressed stare, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. He delighted inwardly at the sound of Damianos’ laugh, but did his best to keep his expression neutral, even as he snatched the quill from Damianos’ fingers.

His scrawl, more loopy with a flourish in each letter, looked strange next to Damianos’. _Perhaps you should teach me something more useful then, Exalted._

The way the prince’s eyebrows shot up, he could read the vague sarcasm in the title, and his lips quirked. His eyes darted round, then he spied a free chair and picked it up, plonking it so close, Laurent could almost smell the forest on him.

Damianos held his hand out, palm up, and Laurent fought back the urge to slip his hand there, instead handing over the quill once again. **What would you learn then? Perhaps commands to lead an army? Or perhaps to order someone to your bed chambers?**

Laurent ignored the flush creeping up his neck, knowing he would not be able to hide it. He huffed and snatched the quill back. _Your humour is in keeping with the things we’ve learnt about you Akielons. Crude._

At that, Damianos threw his head back and laughed. Loudly. The sound echoed off the walls, and the window in front of them, and he was still grinning, toothy and wide as he scribbled back. **And your words as sharp as I had been warned of, Prince Laurent. Truly, what would you have me teach you?**

Laurent felt himself suck in his breath, but the sound of it was drowned in the heavy thumping of his heartbeat in his hears. All the same, he held the quill with confidence. _I do hope, Damianos, that you were sufficiently warned of me. They call me a viper for a reason. And since you ask—truly? I would learn all of it. Every word you have._ He hesitated, and at the end added, _If you wish to teach me._

Damianos sucked in his breath as he read, and his eyes, a golden brown, searched Laurent’s face for truth. When he apparently found what he was looking for, he took the quill back. **I do not believe I have the time here to linger and teach you every word. But I will be happy to show you what I can, before my presence is required back in Ios.** There was some hesitation, then Damianos wrote, **And you may call me Damen. If you wish.**

Laurent blinked up at him, then said, “Damen,” carefully, trying to pronounce it the Akielon way. He was rewarded with a smile from Damen, and a short nod of his head.

 _Tomorrow,_ Laurent wrote. _When you are done holding audience with my brother and father. The stables._

**I will find you there.**

Damen rose, setting the quill down carefully, then gave Laurent a low bow before winking at him, and turning away. He left Laurent sitting there, feeling flushed, and more accomplished than he had in a long time. He still did not trust the Akielons. How could he, how could he trust a man who nearly murdered his brother. And yet, he remained deeply, deeply fascinated.

*** 

Damen was unsurprised to find Nikandros in the arena. Mostly clothed, sword in hand, sweating a little as he held his own against the captain of the Veretian guard. Jord, if Damen was correct about his name. He’d struggled a lot with the pronunciation of Veretian names—he’d spent most of his time working on the royal family’s in case it was needed, though so far Nikandros had been doing well providing his voice.

He was still shaking internally from his run-in with the younger prince in the library. It wasn’t often Damen found himself so taken—be it men or women, really. But he couldn’t shake the desire to be around him. It had been a long day already, talks with the Crown Prince were going well enough, and he felt he would get the support he needed, when he needed it.

As he was certain now it was a matter of when, and not if. Damen had already sent scouts back to Akielon to report back. He had no doubt his brother would try and take advantage of his departure, the moment he learnt of it.

Looking to his left, Damen spotted the prince now, watching the two men battle it out with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth turned up in a smirk. He seemed to realise he was being watched then, and his light eyes fixed on Damen, giving him a short nod—an invitation, Damen assumed.

He took his time walking over, keeping his gaze mostly on the fight. He watched as the swords collided, and he could feel the ghost of the vibrations from their impact in his own hand, from his own training. Nikandros was good, but this Jord would give him a run for his money. Damen knew the Crown Prince was in charge of their technique, and Damen remembered well what a formidable foe Auguste was.

He came to a stop next to the prince, giving a short bow—one that was returned. Auguste kept his eye, then pointed at the pair who were circling each other, and signed, ‘Good.’ He was picking up a few things from the meeting—not hesitating in asking Nikandros to show him basic greetings and phrases so he could communicate more effectively. Not with the same fire the younger prince seemed to have, but far more than even half the Akielon nobles had ever done, which stirred something in him, made him question so much of what he’d learnt. It strengthened his belief that coming here was the right idea.

Damen nodded at the prince and very slow signed, ‘Good fight.’ He mouthed it in Veretian, and Auguste seemed to pick it up, because he chuckled and clapped Damen on the shoulder.

When they turned back to the fight, Nikandros had Jord on his back, the sword at his throat, and it was obvious Jord had yielded. As Nikandros offered a hand out to his opponent, Damen could see the fire in both their eyes—frustration, adrenaline, desire.

Damen almost laughed.

Instead he offered his own applause along with the rest of the court who was watching. Jord took the loss gracefully, and shook Nikandros’ hand before marching off to wash up, and Nikandros gave Damen a sharp eye before he nodded his head toward the arena bath.

It was far smaller than the royal ones, just a basin of warmed water. Damen stood with his arms crossed as Nikandros cleaned himself up, and when he’d pinned a clean chiton to his shoulder, he turned. ‘What?’

Damen held his hands up in surrender, shaking his head. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘You’re giving me the look,’ Nik’s sharp fingers pointed out, and he gave an exaggerated face which made Damen snort.

‘You like him.’ He spelt Jord’s name out. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that look on your face.’

‘You’re talking rubbish,’ Nik said, and he brushed past Damen, knowing full well the prince would follow.

They headed outside, toward the gardens where the sun was shining full. Damen missed the humid heat of Ios, but it was far from unpleasant in Arles. They sat by the fountain, Damen stretching his legs, thinking idly of the younger prince in the library still, possibly watching the afternoon go by as he wrote down this thoughts, read his books. Damen often wondered what it would be like to have the luxury and the leisure. He’d never known that life. He’d worked doubly hard for half the respect his father was given from birth.

‘Do you really feel it’s going well?’ Nik finally asked.

Damen shrugged. ‘I trust them more than I trust half our kingdom.’ When Nik gave him a disbelieving look, he amended, ‘Perhaps a third. They’re trying.’

Nik’s jaw clenched, but he had to concede a nod. ‘I don’t trust their intentions, but some of them seem to be men of honour.’

‘Men of a certain…quality,’ Damen signed the last word slowly, his face showing intent which made Nikandros punch him in the arm. ‘Do I tell lies?’

‘You talk rubbish, Damianos,’ he said, using Damen’s proper name-sign. ‘He seems to be…a good man. His Akielon is terrible.’

Damen snorted and shook his head. ‘Perhaps private lessons.’

Nik’s face was drawn, but Damen could see a growing, dark blush across his cheeks. ‘I hate you.’

Damen grinned widely. ‘You do not.’ After a beat, he signed, ‘I will meet the younger prince tomorrow for a ride.’

Nik blinked at him. ‘Are you courting him? I’ve seen this before, I know you, Damen. Don’t let that pretty face…’

Damen touched his wrist, stopping his hands. ‘It will not interfere with why I’m here.’

Nik looked frustrated, but he knew better than to try and stop Damen. ‘Would you like me to accompany you.’

With a tiny smile, Damen shook his head. ‘No. I think tomorrow, we can manage.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the terrible update schedule. I'm trying, I promise I am. x


	4. Chapter 4

Laurent was determined to keep himself busy most of the afternoon as his father and Auguste sat in meetings with the Akielons. He managed it at first. A warm-up ride with his horse, a bath, ordering food packed for the journey, drawing out a map of where he might take Damianos. He stopped by the library and gathered ink, quills, and parchment to take along for the journey, and reshelved a few of the books he’d taken out.

He found himself with hours to spare, and eventually ended up in the gardens near the fountain where the statue of his mother sat. He stared up at her face—she looked like them, like him and Auguste, more than they resembled their father. He wished desperately for memories of her the way Auguste had them, but he supposed it wouldn’t have mattered in the end. She would not have been here to give him advice.

“I suppose I’d ask you to wish me luck, but I don’t even know what it would be for,” Laurent muttered to her, touching the edge of the carved dress. He startled when a throat cleared, and spun to find Jord stood there in riding armour, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Highness, I’ve been sent to let you know the horses are saddled and ready. His Exalted is already at the stables. I, and a few of his personal guard, will remain nearby.”

Laurent’s jaw clenched in annoyance, but he understood the necessity of it all. Damianos’ life was potentially in danger, and it was unfair to ask those around him to give them full privacy. He had never expected to court or be courted in total privacy anyway—if that’s what this is. Right now the lines were so blurred, he couldn’t be certain.

Still, he was the Prince of Vere, and he was above such petty fears. He squared his shoulders and gathered himself. “Thank you, Jord. Dismissed.”

Jord hesitated, then turned on his heel and marched off, leaving Laurent a free moment to collect himself before he made his way to the stables.

When he arrived, he could see the prince by the edge of the stable door. His hands were moving in fluid, rapid conversation with his interpreter who was also geared up to ride. Laurent felt a prickle of annoyance suddenly, and a fresh determination to learn the language so they wouldn’t need someone between them.

He was captivated right then, watching how quickly they conversed. It was different when it was in front of others. Damianos’ signs were sharper, slower, more formal. Here there was a lazy quality, a familiarity between friends—possibly even family. Possibly more—Laurent was not sure. And that question sent a sharp sizzle of jealous wonder through his limbs.

He was about to step forward when suddenly Nikandros gave a sharp nod and walked off to join the rest of the guard. Laurent nearly jumped for joy when he realised that although they wouldn’t be alone, Damianos was trusting him to be as close as they could get it.

There would not be someone between them.

He squared his shoulders, then walked up slowly, waiting for Damianos to notice his presence. It took only a moment, and Laurent felt his heart thud against his ribs as he watched the prince’s face break out into a slow, sweet smile.

He tipped his hand in the sign for hello—one Laurent remembered easily, and quickly returned it. Damianos’ cheeks flushed dark, but he gave a formal bow, which Laurent copied, then Damianos reached into the folds of his chiton and produced a small, folded bit of parchment.

**Talking will be complicated on the road. I hope you don’t mind I’ve asked Nik to ride with the guard instead of with us.**

Laurent had no means to explain exactly how much he didn’t mind, so he hoped his expression and the firm shake of his head conveyed it. It seemed to, because Damianos went even brighter—if that was even possible.

It wasn’t long before they were riding, Laurent taking the lead on the trail which was well worn from his time spent on it—usually alone, sometimes with Auguste on his heels. Damianos had been correct—there was no real means to communicate as they trotted close to each other’s sides, but the exchanged smiles were worth it.

They were nearing the stream now, where Laurent intended to stop for a bit—a quiet place in a grove of trees which shielded them from the view of Arles. It felt like a private world outside of the palace whilst still being on the grounds, and it was easy to forget—at least for a short while—the responsibilities they had waiting for them.

He turned to look at Damianos, who was staring back at him, and for lack of anything else to say, Laurent pointed up to one of the taller trees and said as careful as he could manage, “What’s the sign for tree?”

Damianos frowned, then pointed to the tree, and Laurent nodded. With a small chuckle, Damianos made a wide, flat palm, then waved it near his temple. It looked a bit like branches waving in a breeze.

Laurent copied it. ‘Tree.’

Damianos nodded. He then pointed to the horse, released the reins for a second to put one fist on top of the other, then moved them in a trotting pattern. ‘Horse,’ he mouthed.

Laurent copied the gesture, and Damianos beamed at him.

It felt a little silly, like a small child learning their shapes and letters, but it was something. He took a breath of the sweet air, then turned to look behind them. He saw no sign of their guard, no whisper of them on the breeze, but he supposed that was a mark of how well trained they were, and he appreciated it.

He could hear the stream from far off now, and pointed through a small clearing. Damianos nodded, followed him through it, and soon enough they were dismounting, tying their horses close to the water so they could drink and rest in the shade.

Laurent unpacked what he could—the food the kitchens had prepared, and the supplies he’d stolen from the library. He heard a soft chuckle behind him as he was setting the ink up on a small stone, and he turned to see Damianos grinning helplessly, holding his own box with ink, a quill, and a small stack of parchment.

Laurent flushed, biting his bottom lip, but he did not break Damen’s gaze as he settled on the soft throw which he settled over the forest floor. Damianos took less than a moment to join him. His large body covered so much of the area, but he had a way about him which made his size seem unthreatening, welcoming and warm.

Laurent tried not to think of that too hard. Not even as Damianos reached past him for the parchment and quill. Not even as his elbow rubbed gently against Laurent’s arm as he wrote.

**I’ve never had to sit and teach someone my language before. I don’t know where to begin.**

Laurent snorted a laugh. _I wouldn’t either. I was given lessons by my tutors growing up in everything I know. I wouldn’t have the patience. Do you trust I’m a fast learner?_

Damianos’ eyebrows rose, and he set the quill down and made a go-on gesture, his expression telling Laurent, ‘show me what you remember.’

Laurent flushed, but he squared his shoulders, lifted his hands, and began. He had spent very little time with Damianos, so he managed his name, good morning, good night. He remembered water from the baths, tree and horse from the ride to the stream, and he finished off with a goodbye, which made Damianos chuckle.

“Good,” Damianos said aloud.

Laurent fought off the urge to press his palms to his warm cheeks, but he didn’t back down. He was captivated, getting lost in the intensity of the prince’s deep brown eyes, the way his lips quirked up in a smile.

After a moment, Laurent grabbed the parchment and scribbled as quick as he could, _What do I sign when I want to ask you to teach me something?_

Damianos made a low noise of contemplation in the back of his throat, then pointed off in the distance, then circled flat palms facing each other, then lifted one finger in front of his chest, wriggling it back and forth. After Laurent had copied it, the prince wrote, **What’s the sign for that. You just point at what you wish to know.**

 _That seems like a lot of short signs for such a long sentence, Exalted._ Laurent raised his eyebrows challengingly. _Are you making me say ridiculous things?_

 **As tempting as it might be, highness, teaching you is more important than pranks. My language doesn’t contain as many words as yours. Different grammar. We can do those lessons in the future, after you catch up on the basics.** Damianos finished his sentence with a wink, then wrote, **Try it.**

Laurent practised a few more times, then stood up an Damianos followed him down the path, to where the rocks led to the small stream. Laurent took a breath, then signed, ‘What’s the sign for that?’

Damianos made a fist, touching his thumb to the side of his forehead, then pointed at Laurent and signed, ‘Water.’

Laurent shook his head, then spelt, STREAM.

The prince laughed, then showed him. It carried on this way for a while, a bit frustrating because Laurent wanted to know now, wanted to be able to converse as quickly as he could with his words, as quickly as Damianos and his guard could with their hands. He didn’t like being behind, didn’t like not knowing what was going on behind the gentle smile as Damianos watched him.

But this was as good as they would get, and at the very least it was sweet and warm, and Laurent was terrified of their little moment being shattered by whatever was waiting for them when they returned.

*** 

Damen was in over his head a little, he realised, when it came to the prince. Damen knew his strengths, of course. He knew he was attractive, knew exactly how to charm anyone he wanted to bed, but this felt…different. This felt like the sort of bone-deep heat like he wanted to draw the afternoon out and make it last forever. He wanted to push Laurent onto the mossy forest floor and explore every inch of him with wide, warm palms, and plush lips.

And it wasn’t as though Laurent wasn’t receptive to it. Damen immediately caught on to the heavy flush in his cheeks every time Damen laughed or smiled. He saw the way Laurent’s fingers trembled with his signs, the way he’d purposefully flub them in order to feel Damen’s larger hands curving round to correct them. But the afternoon continued to stutter along because Damen realised he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

He’d bedded princes and princesses before—that was to be expected and no one seemed to mind. For as much as the King of Vere seemed to view Damen the same as everyone else in the world did, he didn’t seem to be bothered by Damen’s passing interest in his youngest son.

However that was possibly because he assumed that’s all it was—a passing interest.

But as they sat and ate, and conversed as best they could between Laurent’s unpractised fingers, and their tidy scrawl on parchment, Damen was questioning himself. There was a literal war waiting for him across the border, and so far for all his pleas he’d had no confirmation of whether or not Vere would actually aid him. Yet he found his mind drifting to a future. Of seeing a laurel circlet adorning Laurent’s forehead, of seeing him in soft, white and gold chitons, a pin glinting in the afternoon sun. Of seeing all that skin on display, being able to touch and be touched whenever they wanted, for as long as they wanted.

Damen had come to Vere expecting a lot—but none of his expectations had been this.

He felt his breath hitch in his chest a moment later, when Laurent’s soft hand touched his cheek. He looked over to see the prince holding a bright orange flower from the bush near them, pinched between his thumb and fingers. He held it on display, his face questioning.

Damen’s smile was besotted, helpless as he raised his hand, pinching his fingers, circling them near his nose. ‘Flower,’ he mouthed with the sign in Akielon, unthinking.

Laurent copied the gesture, then with the most delicate movements, reached up and tucked the stem into Damen’s curls. A courting gesture, a startling one. Damen, himself, had never been courted. Jokaste had been coy, had shown her interest, had allowed herself to be chased. But never had someone openly asked for Damen’s attention, for his affection.

His heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest.

Still, he was no blushing adolescent with only fantasy to go on. His fingers—though large—were careful and deft as he reached behind Laurent for the bush holding soft, small purple blossoms. He plucked a handful, then carefully carded his fingers through Laurent’s soft hair—lighter than Jokaste’s had been, and softer. He pushed the petals in, like a rainshower of purple against the pale, and his pulse thrummed, heart in his mouth with how much he _wanted_.

He didn’t draw his hands away, instead dragging his fingers down the curve of Laurent’s neck, stopping when he hit the soft blue fabric. He brushed his thumb along the cut of Laurent’s jaw, feeling a puff of breath against the calloused pad. He felt vibrations under the fingers that pressed lightly to Laurent’s throat, possibly a moan, one he wanted to feel more of.

He watched Laurent’s eyes flutter closed, his mouth moving through a word that took the crown prince a moment to read. “Damen. Damen.”

Damen surged forward, crowding Laurent back against the tree, cupping his face fully with one hand, the other pressed against his pulse-point. He struggled for the language Laurent would understand, and remembered the word in Veretian, though no clue if he was pronouncing it correctly. “Again. My name.”

He felt Laurent shudder under him, as his lips curved over the name, his throat trembling under Damen’s fingers.

He couldn’t hold himself back, and the way Laurent’s head was tipped back, skin flushed, lips parted—the prince didn’t want him to.

The first kiss was tentative, easy, his grip light to allow Laurent to move away from it in case it wasn’t wanted. The hesitation only lasted a minute, only long enough for Laurent do curl his arms round Damen’s neck and tug him in for something harder, a little more desperate.

It was obvious Laurent was unpractised, and Damen was suddenly dizzy with the realisation that this was possibly the prince’s first kiss ever. Something raw and possessive flared to life in his gut, as his lips parted, as his tongue darted out, a gentle swipe, but making his intentions plain.

Laurent nodded against him, and Damen’s hands went out, seeking friction, seeking the bits of skin he could find. Laurent was flush-warm and pliant and needy, and Damen wanted to lay him down and strip him bare, and take every second he could.

But…

This was not the time, and they both became aware of it around the same moment. Their deep, desperate kisses fell back into something softer, sweeter, chasing pecks and little bites as Damen slowly, _slowly_ pulled his body back. 

Laurent’s hands fell down to Damen’s waist, his fingers digging into the soft chiton, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger almost absently. Damen could not help himself. He leant in, pressing soft, gentle kisses along Laurent’s cheeks, along the cut of his jaw, sweet, lingering pecks to his mouth.

He desperately wished they had the language to speak to each other, but he would give it time. If Laurent would have him—if his father would allow—they would have time.

Damen’s fingers trembled as he reached for the ink, for the quill. His hands were stained with flecks of black, and he wished they would stay like that, a reminder of what they shared this afternoon when he had to make his long, painfully lonely journey home.

 **I want you.** He showed the parchment to Laurent, took in the pink of his cheeks, fighting back the urge to throw everything aside and kiss him again. **I want to court you, properly, the way you deserve.**

It took Laurent some time to answer. _Why?_

Damen stared down at the parchment, a sort of jolt in his chest, confusion as he looked up into Laurent’s face and saw nothing but honesty. His hand shook and it took him a moment to write back. **I could write a thousand sonnets why. I could write epic volumes, but I’m not sure I have the words in any of our languages. You are beautiful, and clever, and there is a piece of me that is still stunned that I have the opportunity to ask, because you have not been taken by someone already. I want to ask your father—when things in my kingdom are better, when my brother is no longer a threat, I wish to court you. Openly. If you’ll have me.**

Laurent didn’t take the parchment back, merely stared at Damen as though he couldn’t believe it. His hands reached out, and Damen gave him free range to explore, to touch anywhere he wanted. Laurent’s fingers pressed into his dimples, pressed through his curls, dislodging the flower. They travelled across the expanse of his chest, digging just under the hem of the chiton that stretched over it. They landed on his thighs, pushing through the coarse hair, splaying flat along his muscles and holding himself there.

Damen reached out, cupping his chin, drawing his gaze up before he kissed him again. Laurent was pliant to it, leaning into it, his fingers curling into the fabric over Damen’s stomach.

It was getting late now, and the guard would be urging them home soon if they did not agree to it themselves. Damen had one night left in Arles before he and his retinue would return home to deal with whatever Akielon had prepared for him. Aid or not, Damen must win his people away from his brother. And then…whatever happened after that…he would give himself over fully.

He pushed to stand, but Laurent’s hand stayed him, urging him back down. Damen did, with a frown, and he watched Laurent take up the parchment and ink. _Come to me tonight. It may be a long time—too long—before we see each other again. Please._

Damen read the plea, then cupped Laurent’s cheek with one, large hand and nodded, lips firm before dipping down for one last, lingering kiss. He could not say what he felt, but he hoped Laurent could read it from those kisses. When he pulled back and took in the prince’s expression, Damen was fairly sure the message was received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this fic has an actual plot, which we'll be getting to in the next couple of chapters. I love these softies so much, so I'm feeling highly motivated to write them <3 Here's hoping that momentum keeps up lol. x


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things, I've changed the chapter count because I'm not sure how long it'll take me. I don't think I'll go past ten, but there's a chance I will. I've got a decent plot coming up for this fic, and some angst, but ultimately it will be a happy ending, so take comfort in that.
> 
> This chapter is basically just sex, it's kind of an interlude between their meeting, and the whole angst plot, so...I'm sorry for what comes next.

Dinner was an impossible affair, and not because Damen felt the sinking sensation in his gut that the King had made up his mind and would no offer aid—though that put a damper on Damen’s impending feeling of triumph, but the way he was forced to keep himself still, and polite, and focused on Nikandros’ hands instead of the blonde at the other end of the table.

Damen could see past Laurent’s bland expression now, could read the coy quirks of his lips, the way his narrowed eyes meant something far more than boredom or distaste. The way the faint blush of his cheeks was _not_ from the heat of the torches.

Damen speared a bit of meat on his fork, chewing blandly, nodding along as Nikandros interpreted whatever nonsense was falling from the King’s lips. Placating assurances that Damen was sure to triumph over a militia, even if he was not offered aid. He knew a kiss-off when he was faced with one.

‘Thank you. You have been very generous to have me here,’ Damen’s fingers told Nikandros, who told the King.

He was rewarded with the King’s face falling for only a second, but the line of tension in his shoulders was gone when it became clear Damen did not intend to fight him, or make a big scene. In truth, Damen was tired. He was tired of fighting twice as hard for half as much, and part of him deeply considered rolling over and letting Kastor take Akielos. Then Damen would take the hand of the second born prince, and they would steal away in some secluded palace and live the rest of their lives in solitude.

Of course Damen knew that was ridiculous. Kastor—for all that he was family and Damen loved him—as misguided as his love was—would be a terrible leader. He had put all of his focus into battle, not strategy or diplomacy. Damen, who according to most men who could not understand his language, was mute and yet still gained far more favour than Kastor would be able to. And there were plenty of pockets of his population who believed Damen unfit to rule, but there were more who believed in him.

And he comforted himself with that.

Besides, he did not think Laurent would be content to hide away the rest of his life. Laurent would go on to do big things—Damen hoped those big things would be at his side, on his arm as husband and ruler, but he was getting ahead of himself. That, he remembered, never led to decent places. That led to betrayal—to his betrothed leaving his bed to steal away in the middle of his night with his brother.

Damen’s heart was moving fast, but his mind would keep him slowed down. He would return to Ios, he would stamp out the rebellion his brother was gathering, and then he would make his intentions with Laurent known to the world. And it was possible the King would agree. There was little use for the second son. Not when Auguste was already engaged, and already preparing to bring another heir into the world.

Damen would gladly give half his kingdom to Laurent.

He blinked, then realised Laurent was staring at him, and he cleared his throat. ‘I’m going to take my leave. I must prepare for my journey back to Ios.’

He was bade farewell by Auguste who promised to meet him in the morning, and then by the King who seemed more than happy to let him go. Laurent did nothing more than nod, but there was a heat—a fire, a promise—in his eyes, that if Damen was true to his word and came to Laurent that night, there would be a better sending off.

Damen had no intention of missing that.

*** 

It was late by the time Damen left his chambers, armed with a small box, and a map which would lead to the prince’s quarters. He pulled the door open, uncertain if it was quiet—but hoping, and he stepped into the corridor, only to be bowled over by a fair sized body.

He let out an oomph, then stared at the man in front of him. 

Jord, whose cheeks were flushed dark, and his eyes averted. His mouth was moving in some sort of greeting or apology, and Damen quickly touched his shoulder with his hand, then pointed to his ear with his eyebrows raised as if to say, ‘Remember, I cannot hear.’

Jord’s flush deepened, and he bit his lip, then bowed his head. Damen was no fool, and he knew what Jord was after, what he was coming for. A thrill of happiness for both Jord and Nik rushed through him, and he did the only thing he could think of—he gave Jord’s cheek a fond pat, then made a, ‘Go on,’ gesture.

There was an agreement then, between them. Jord would say nothing of Damen’s wanderings, and Damen would do the same for him.

Damen did not look back as he hurried along the maze of hallways.

It didn’t take him long to reach Laurent’s door, though he was surprised by the lack of guard. He assumed maybe they were nearby, or that Laurent even possibly had dismissed them. Whatever the case, he was grateful he wouldn’t have to pantomime a reason why he was visiting the prince under the cover of the late night.

Hesitating only a moment, Damen rapped his knuckles on the door to let the prince know he was there, and then pushed his way inside. He was uncertain what to expect of Laurent’s chambers, and was not startled in the least to find rooms similar to his own, though larger, and more ornate. The door gave way to a sitting room with a pile of glowing embers in a hearth. There were several chairs, a lounging sofa, and shelves upon shelves of books. In the dark corner, Damen was able to make out a writing desk with stacks of parchment, and it made him smile thinking of Laurent sat there during the day, writing down whatever thought crossed his clever mind.

He shivered, suddenly, with want and anticipation. His hand was sweating where he was holding the small box, and he tucked it under his arm, swiping his palm along his chiton. He didn’t want to play this game of cat and mouse any longer, and he pushed through a set of double doors which led him to Laurent’s bedchamber.

Laurent was there, still dressed in his day clothes, perched on a chair with one leg lazily thrown onto the arm. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Damen, and only the flush of his cheeks gave him away. Damen swallowed thickly, glanced round before setting the box on the end of Laurent’s bed, then approached him with four quick strides.

He thought for a moment Laurent would make him work for it, but before he reached the prince, Laurent was on his feet, his hand out, fisting into the front of Damen’s clothes. He could feel the strain on his lion pin as Laurent tugged him close, head tipped up, lips parted just slightly in anticipation of a kiss.

Damen did not make him wait long. His hand reached up, brushing through Laurent’s fine, short hair. He marvelled at the way it drifted along his brown skin, like shining gold in the lamplight. He shivered, he felt a moan in his throat as he tipped down. One hand cupped Laurent’s cheek, the other pressing to the small of his back to keep him closer, _closer_ as their lips danced together.

He pulled away with a shudder, feeling his entire body humming with arousal, but he could not give in yet. He had things to say, and it would take him longer than he wanted to, but they were important. He dragged his hands down Laurent’s arms, feeling the crushed soft velvet under the pads of his fingers. He felt Laurent’s skin heat up as their fingers tangled, and it was no struggle to draw Laurent to the bed.

Licking his lips, he made a noise to get Laurent’s attention, then pointed to the box. ‘Open,’ he signed, hoping the sign was enough to convey what he wanted.

Laurent hesitated only a moment, then he reached for it as he sat. It was larger in Laurent’s fine hands, the fingertips pushing the lid open with a grace Damen would never possess. He watched the line of Laurent’s throat as he swallowed, the slight tremble as he reached in to explore.

On the top was a chiton, the finest fabric Damen owned. It would be, perhaps, a bit long on Laurent’s more slight frame, but he didn’t really expect the prince to wear it anyway. He watched as Laurent dragged the fabric through his hands, testing the weight of it, the feel. He pushed it against his nose, then looked up with a smile.

Setting it aside, he pulled the pin out next. Not quite the same as Damen wore to signify his title, but all the same it bore his royal crest. Laurent’s fingers rubbed along the ridges. His lips parted, and then they closed as he noticed the parchment folded underneath that.

There were three of them.

Damen reached out, snatching them away before Laurent could take the lead, and he bit his lip as Laurent rose to his feet. Clearing his throat, Damen thumbed the edge of the first one before handing it over. He watched Laurent’s lips move as he read the words, and he fought the urge to press his fingers to Laurent’s throat to see if he was, in fact, speaking aloud.

**When I leave for Akielos, I do not know when I will see you again. I have a long journey ahead of me and your father has made it very clear that he will not provide me aid. He was my last hope. It does not mean my brother will triumph, it only means the battle may drag on longer than I’d hoped. But when it’s over, I wish to court you. This is me, formally asking, for you to wait for me. Until it’s over, and I can come back, and make my intentions known. I don’t wish to rule in Ios without you by my side.**

When Laurent looked up, his eyes were bright—dry but full of wonder and uncertainty, like maybe he couldn’t believe it. Damen almost scoffed. Surely Laurent knew how desirable he was. Not just for his beauty, though that was enough to punch all the air out of Damen’s lungs. But he was sweet, and the cleverness of the second born prince was enough to make his fingers and toes tingle. Damen wanted to be there for every bright moment Laurent shared with the world.

Laurent read the words again, then set the parchment down and nodded. For lack of ability to say anything else in Damen’s language, Laurent pressed his hand to his own chest, right over his beating heart. Then he reached out and splayed his hand flat along Damen’s, surely able to feel the way Damen’s own heart was threatening to beat straight out from behind his ribs.

It was answer enough.

Damen pulled Laurent in for another, searing kiss. When he pulled back, he felt his own cheeks warm with a blush, half hard, roused, wanting to push Laurent into the bed and take him. But he would not rush this moment. There was more to say.

He handed over the second parchment.

**Am I right to believe you have not lain with anyone before? Of any gender?**

Laurent’s flush was more inexperience and maybe a hint of embarrassment, but he met Damen’s eyes all the same, and nodded again.

Damen kissed him for his honesty, for his bravery, his thumb pushing on Laurent’s bottom lip to coax his mouth a little wider, to let Damen dip his tongue inside, for the briefest of moments. When he pulled back, Laurent’s eyes were half-lidded and a little glassy.

The third parchment.

**I would like to make love to you, but I want you to take the lead, to tell me what you want. I will give you anything.**

At that, Damen urged Laurent to respond with his own words on the parchment. It was a struggle to leave the chambers then, to rush to the desk, to scribble with ink. But Damen was patient, because he wanted to give Laurent exactly what he desired. Whatever that might be.

It felt like an eternity when Laurent handed the parchment back, and for just a second, just a breath, Damen felt a prickle of fear that maybe Laurent would tell him no, would reject him, would say it was all just too much.

_I can’t say what I want because I don’t know. I just know I want you. I’ll wait as long as it takes, and believe me Damianos, I do not say such things lightly. But you seem…worth it. Do not prove me wrong. But I would like you to show me how it could be…how it will be, when we are together._

The parchment fluttered to the floor as Damen reached for him, his fingers crushing into the tops of his shoulders, tugging Laurent close so they were pressed chest to chest. Damen leant his head down, burying his nose in Laurent’s neck, breathing him in. He felt a rumble in Laurent’s chest, a moan, possibly. He pulled back to see the flush spreading across Laurent’s cheeks, the pupils wide, only a thin ring of blue left. Laurent’s fingers were trembling a little as they sought purchase, eventually settling at the fabric on Damen’s waist.

He paused only a moment, then kissed the small bits of exposed skin at Laurent’s throat. He felt Laurent go lax, felt the rush of breath against his temple as he kissed and kissed, and he suddenly became desperate for more. He pulled away, his fingers reaching up for the laces at Laurent’s throat, his brows questioning, waiting for any confirmation of consent.

Laurent reached up, closing his hand round Damen’s wrist, pushing him toward the laces, nodding almost frantically. Damen couldn’t stop the groan from escaping him as his fingers got to work. The laces were delicate, and Damen’s hands spent more time with a sword than threading, but he managed. He manged, because the end result would be worth it.

Every slip of fabric, and every stretch of more skin sent Damen’s head reeling. He managed to get the throat of Laurent’s jacket open, and his lips followed the trail of flesh, leaving suckling kisses in his wake. He felt Laurent’s knees going weak, his body going pliant against him.

He let his hand slip round Laurent’s waist, and turned him toward the bed. It was no trouble at all to ease him down, no trouble at all for his fingers to work harder at the laces at his wrists, at his chest, slowly peeling away layer after layer until Laurent was flushed, pink-warm, exposed apart from the silky, white shirt, and his undergarments.

Damen’s mouth was dry, his throat thick, his hands trembling with want. He reached down to splay them wide, flat on Laurent’s thighs, and watched his chest heave with a breath. It was obvious—how often Laurent spent tied up in his clothes, nothing exposed to skin-to-skin contact, he was starving for it, and Damen was desperate to give it to him.

He pushed the hem of Laurent’s shirt up, nosing along his stomach, delighting in the rumble from Laurent’s chest where his hand lay flat to feel his groans. “Yes,” Damen muttered in Akielon, not caring now how he sounded, what language he spoke. Laurent was receptive to it, the rumble of his moans harder.

Damen kissed, and he kissed, until he could tell Laurent was getting too close to release, and Damen didn’t want that yet, wasn’t ready for that yet. He wanted to draw this out, to make the most of this long night because it was all he was going to have for a long, long time. He needed to catalogue every single moment of this to take with him until he could be with Laurent again.

He could feel the disappointed mutter when he pulled away, and he glanced up at Laurent’s face who was glowering at him, his face begging for more, embarrassed by how much he wanted, but not willing to hide it now.

Damen chuckled, murmured quiet sounds of soothing as he kissed up Laurent’s chest, pushing the shirt up and over his head, then descending on his mouth. Damen could feel a noise slipping from Laurent’s mouth into his own, and he closed his eyes with the sheer joy of having this. He kissed deeper, slower, wanting to make every second of it good, and perfect.

His hand drifted lower, lower still until it found Laurent’s hardness. He pressed his palm there, feeling the pulsing under him, feeling Laurent filling out. He couldn’t help his groan then, as he went lower, cupping him down and down until he felt Laurent shifting restlessly.

Damen pulled back, then, drawing his hand up, reaching for Laurent’s wrist. “I want,” he said, trying his best Veretian. “You.”

Laurent nodded frantically, his mouth moving in a way Damen could not read, but his body language said enough.

“Stop,” Damen said, then lifted Laurent’s hand and tapped his own shoulder with it twice. “Stop,” he repeated.

It took Laurent a second for understanding to flood his expression, but when it did, he nodded.

Damen repeated it once more, just to be certain. Then he leant down and kissed, and let his fingers delve deeper until he was pressed against where he wanted to be most—inside Laurent.

Laurent was nodding, shifting his hips down as though he could gain friction and entrance from that alone. Damen could not help his groan, even as he fumbled for his box, because he’d come prepared for that too—some fantasy, some hope Laurent would give this to him. The small pot of oil was there, and then it was spilt on his fingers, and one was inside, a gentle motion as Damen sat propped up on one elbow, watching Laurent explore the pleasure of it with wonder on his face.

Laurent was so receptive, loud, Damen assumed, by the way the rumbles under his hand made his fingers tingle. Damen was losing himself to this, heady with knowing that some day this could be his, when he wanted—when Laurent wanted.

It wasn’t long before Laurent was ready, flushed, sweaty, lips moving as he begged for Damen, his hands urging Damen between his legs, urging him inside. Damen watched, helpless with new, budding love as Laurent’s mouth opened, as his head tipped back and his thighs clenched round Damen with the slow, easy pushes Damen used.

Damen clenched his fists in the bed, held his breath, squeezed his eyes shut so he could hold on a little longer. Laurent was close—Damen could feel it, and he wanted this to last. He thrust over and over, adjusting his angle until Laurent was arching his back, and pushing his hips into it, his fingers scrambling for Damen’s waist to get him in deeper, this thrusts harder.

Damen’s hand slipped between them, taking Laurent in his fist, stroking him until Laurent gave a full-body shudder, and then climaxed. His seed spilt warm over Damen’s knuckles, and it was all Damen needed before he reached his own. He buried his face in Laurent’s neck and let himself cry out with the pleasure of it.

He felt boneless when it was over, slipping out of Laurent carefully, rolling to his side. He made a noise of protest when Laurent slipped from the sheets, but Laurent merely held up a finger, then pointed to the wash basin in the corner of the room. Damen let out a breath, then held very still as he let Laurent clean him up with perfunctory swipes of a rough cloth.

When he was finished, his still-warm body slid next to Damen’s, stretched along side him. His fingers reached out, tugging at a sweat-soaked curl, his lips lifted into something like a grin.

Damen was a prisoner of his own feelings, of the warmth now living in his chest. His hand reached out, his thumb brushing along the cut of Laurent’s jaw, along his bottom lip. He pulled away, then signed, ‘Beautiful.’ He repeated the word aloud in Veretian.

Laurent flushed, then signed, ‘Beautiful,’ and then pointed at Damen.

His heart beat rapidly again. His eyes flickered to the door after a moment, perhaps the question plain on his face as he thought, ‘Should I leave?’

Laurent captured his wrist, and when Damen looked back over, Laurent’s fingers curled into each other as he very carefully, very slowly spelt, ‘STAY.’

Damen’s eyes shut from the sheer force of how much he wanted that. He swallowed, then tucked Laurent in close. He lay there awake, feeling Laurent’s breathing even out, feeling him slipping into unconsciousness, feeling the ache in his bones knowing he would be giving this up, even if it was only for a little while.

The idea of facing what was out there hurt, like a physical wound, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. It would be worth it. A kingdom and this, he thought, and pressed his lips to Laurent’s temple.

_A kingdom and this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow me on tumblr. My main blog is [angryspace-ravenclaw](https://angryspace-ravenclaw.tumblr.com) where you'll find a mash-up of fandom and personal stuff (mostly check please, harry potter, and star wars) and my Captive Prince side-blog is [itwasseven](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/itwasseven). I try and post updates there, but I'm pretty bad at it. :/
> 
> All the same, thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos. It means everything!! xx


	6. Chapter 6

Laurent woke just before the dawn, the faint grey-blue of the sky just outside his window serving no other purpose than to remind him that within what would feel like moments, the warm arms holding him tight and steady would be gone. And there was no telling when Laurent would feel them again.

Laurent was never one for emotional attachments—his brother might assume it was out of self-preservation, but Laurent mainly found them tedious and exhausting. He would, of course, give his life for his brother, and he had been fond of the horse Auguste had given him. There were a few of his nannies growing up he’d loved like they were his own mother, and he supposed there was some level of affection he felt toward his father—though that felt more out of obligation than anything real.

But what he felt for Damen, after such a short time, terrified him. Letting him go felt like removing a limb—one he could live without, but would inconvenience him, slow him down, force him to feel the loss keenly day after day until he was returned. And he worried, of course. Laurent didn’t believe that his brother would allow Damen to return to Ios with nothing, but he also knew how stubborn and closed-minded his father could be. The King sharing similar views of those who found Damianos incompetent simply because of his lack of hearing was not surprising. Merely absurd.

Closing his eyes, Laurent took a breath, then shifted in Damen’s arms until he could face him. Peering at his face, looking young and soft in his sleep, made Laurent’s fingers tingle. He was unfairly attractive, enough that it felt like his breath had been punched out of him. He ached to run his fingers through Damen’s curls, to touch the curve of his jaw, the slope of his wide nose, the pucker of his full lips. If he let himself, he could feel the echo of every touch Damen had dragged across his body—every kiss, the way he pushed inside Laurent and held him, pulsing with pleasure. He could still hear the quiet, muffled groans and gasps as they made love, as Damen spread Laurent beneath him, and claimed him.

Laurent had never set much stock on virginity—it seemed a ridiculous concept—but there was a piece of him that felt grateful that it had been Damianos to lay the first touch to him. Whatever happened in the future, he could not imagine himself regretting it.

His only regret was not learning enough so they could speak freely. He knew Damen had much to say, he saw it in the way his hands would fly through signs when Nikandros spoke for him. He could see the way Damen’s mind worked through the glimmer in his eye when his brain became fixated on an idea. Laurent wanted to know all of it, wanted Damen to be able to speak as freely with his hands as with his tongue, and Laurent wanted to know all of it.

He breathed through his want again, feeling himself stirring between his legs. It was…new. It was thrilling. It wasn’t often he felt skin against his own, and he wanted to drown in the feel of Damen’s warm arm pressed against his waist.

He couldn’t stop himself now, from running a gentle touch along Damen’s side, tracing the outline of him. He startled slightly, when Damen groaned, when he shifted. One dark eye, bleary and reddened with sleep, peered at him. Laurent watched with bated breath as Damen’s lip curved into a half smile—a smirk almost, full of coy pleasure.

Another groan, and Damen shifted closer, tucking Laurent against his front, burying his nose in Laurent’s neck. He could hear the way Damen sucked in a breath, could feel it as it ghosted along his warm skin as Damen let it out.

When the crown prince pulled back, he was wearing a proper smile, besotted in a way Laurent felt, but didn’t know if he could express properly. His hand carefully moved off Laurent’s waist to half-sign, ‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ Laurent repeated, and he was rewarded by a happy hum, by Damen leaning forward to place a warm kiss along the side of his neck.

The gesture shot right through Laurent, ramping up his desire, pooling hot in his belly. Damen must have felt him, Laurent was too close to his thigh to be able to hide anything, because his smile moved into a sultry grin. His eyes flickered down, then back up, and his head cocked to the side.

Laurent rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop his own smile, and he certainly didn’t stop Damen when he leant in, capturing his chin with one hand to place a languid kiss on his mouth. Laurent was so, so gone. His breath caught in his throat a moment later when Damen’s hand brushed down his front. It was curled into a fist, the large knuckles brushing through the sparse hair on Laurent’s chest, then lower, lower until his warm palm opened, curling round his hardness.

“Damen,” he gasped, and felt Damen’s other hand reach up, touching gently at his throat. Damen had done that the night before, and it had taken Laurent a moment to realise he was feeling Laurent speak, feeling his moans. Laurent did not want to hold back. He tipped his head forward, his hips seeking even as Damen’s hand stroked him with a firm, almost furious pace. His fingers dug into the tops of Damen’s shoulders, but suddenly the motion stopped.

Damen was pushing him back against the pillows, shifting the duvet low, crouching between his legs. Laurent’s entire body went hot the second he realised what was happening. Damen’s eyes lifted up, his gaze searching Laurent’s face for consent. Laurent reached down, stroking his fingers over Damen’s jaw, and that seemed to be enough.

The crown prince’s mouth replaced the fingers, and swallowed Laurent with a single slide. It was almost too much, the heat, the wetness, the way Damen hollowed his cheeks and curled his tongue. Laurent’s fingernails bit into his palm to keep himself from spilling right then and there. He wanted to close his eyes, the only way he could think of to draw the moment out, but he also didn’t want to waste a single second not looking at Damen.

There was no hope for him, really. It was all just too much. Damen curled his hand along Laurent’s thigh, gave a firm suck, and Laurent was coming. He managed a tap on the side of Damen’s face as a warning just before it was all over. For the surprise of it, Damen didn’t seem to mind, swallowing it down, then carefully moving off Laurent, and up the length of him until their noses pressed together.

Laurent’s mouth opened for a kiss, tasting a sort of sour salt on Damen’s tongue. Me, he realised. The taste of himself. The thought was heady and arousing in a way he couldn’t explain. His hand moved between them, his unpractised fingers drawing along the expanse of Damen’s naked belly, fingernails dragging through the coarse hair. Damen’s hardness was heavy against his palm, sliding in and out of his foreskin, the dampness smelling so much of _him_.

Laurent watched with fascination as Damen thrust his hips, fucking his fist. He was close, Laurent noticed, when his movements lost rhythm, they became an erratic motion. Then Damen gasped, and pushed his forehead hard against Laurent’s shoulder, and he came.

The white fluid spurt out of the tip, landing on the side of Laurent’s fingers, and he watched it with wonder. It was warm, though sticky, and chilled as Damen pulled away from him.

Standing up, Laurent made to move toward the wash basin when there was an almost frantic knock on his chamber doors. Damen’s gaze followed Laurent’s startled one, and he made a motion like he was pounding on a door.

Laurent nodded, then said, “Come in!”

Seconds later, Nikandros burst in. He stuttered to a halt when he realised what had just happened—both princes’ nudity, the flush on their cheeks. But it was only momentary, before his hands started flying. Laurent couldn’t hope to follow, but he saw the way Damen’s face fell, the way he seemed torn, before pushing himself up.

Propriety reminded Laurent he should cover himself. He grappled for a dressing gown, then swiped his wet hands on a towel and turned in time to see Damen fastening his chiton over his shoulder. His stomach was in knots. Something was wrong.

“Tell me,” Laurent demanded.

Nikandros looked at him, then back at Damen, his hands flying. Damen made an impatient noise, a wave of his hand as he struggle with his sandals, and Nikandros sighed before turning back to Laurent. “I’m sorry to interrupt, your highness, but we’ve received word this morning that Kastor’s men have approached the capital. Our military needs aid, and the prince needs to be on the front lines.”

“My father…”

“Has refused his Exalted’s request for aid.” Nikandros’ Veretian was sharp, angry, and Laurent didn’t blame him.

“I’ll see what I can do. I…I don’t have much power but…”

Nikandros was translating this to Damen whose face softened. He crossed the room, making short signs before cupping Laurent’s face between his impossibly large palms, and kissing him. Nikandros’ voice spoke over the din. “That won’t be necessary. Don’t put yourself into a position of disfavour with your father. We will triumph. Trust me. I will write to you.”

Laurent nodded, gripping Damen’s wrists tight. He thought of the pin and the chiton in the box Damen had given him, of the little notes he had discarded the night before, but now felt desperate to find, to preserve. “Stay safe. Please,” Laurent whispered.

Damen looked over for translation, then nodded and kissed Laurent again, slow, drawn out, sweet and everything he couldn’t say with his hands between them yet. But Laurent would use the absence to learn, to give himself into all of it.

They were gone before Laurent felt like he’d been given a proper goodbye, but it was what it was. He sat in his chair by the window, watching the prince’s retinue ready their horses, watching his brother and the King say their farewells. 

And then they were away.

Laurent didn’t leave his chair until long after the dust settled.

*** 

Damen ignored the feeling in his chest like a rock had settled there, soothing it with a promise that the moment he defeated Kastor and stopped this rebellion, he would return to Vere and ask for the Prince’s hand. The morning had been the best he’d spent in so long—longer than he cared to remember—and to have it ripped away from him with news that Kastor was approaching the capital had hurt, like a gaping wound.

His goodbyes had been too short, drawn out kisses and feeling Laurent’s words under the palm of his hand as Nikandros spelt them out on his fingers. Then he’d rushed to his rooms to prepare his things, strapped into his riding armour, and headed to his men.

He watched Nikandros’ goodbye to Jord with a flare of jealousy in his belly. Jord, his eyes heavy-lidded and smitten. He saw the tender way Nik cupped Jord’s cheek, the way he leant in and whispered into his ear, the way they kissed and kissed until he had no other choice but to mount his horse and be gone.

The ride back to Ios would be long and painful for them both. They kept the conversations to a minimum, and when they stopped to make camp, Damen focussed all his energy into planning. 

They sent scouts ahead, messengers, desperate for word from his father—from his men who should be holding the line. No aid was coming to help Damianos—he must do this on his own. 

‘The quickest and surest way to gain victory is to stop him,’ Nikandros told him, blunt as he ever was. ‘You cannot let him live.’

‘I cannot strike him down, Nikandros. He’s my brother.’

They would remain at that impasse, Damen knew. And it was fine. He would find another way.

He breathed easy, though it didn’t take the hurry from his steps, when messengers returned to say that the men had held the line, and Kastor’s militia had been driven back into the villages beyond. It was not a long-term solution, but Damen would eventually reach the front lines and he would end this.

He hoped word of his return would spread, and it would renew the men’s vigour.

*** 

It took them far too many days to cross the lands, but by the time they arrived at the borders of Ios, there was no sign of Kastor’s militia. The men Damen had sent ahead came back to report Kastor’s men had disbursed without incident, and had bled back into the countryside. The men seemed to take this as a victory, but Damen was hesitant to drop his guard.

He was exhausted, but come morning, he would begin to plan a counter attack. He would not wait for Kastor to resurface.

There was a small fanfare regarding his arrival, and the faces of his people seemed more pleased than not to see his return. He supposed there would be some level of disappointment that he’d come empty-handed, but he doubted any of them believed he would have real success.

He knew though, when he brought the prince home with him—should Laurent truly agree to rule at his side—he would have to do a little more than parade through the streets with a gentle wave to win them over. Veretians were not overly welcome in Akielos, even with their tentative peace treaty.

But, it was a problem for another day. For now, he would have to greet his father, take his rest, and begin his real work come dawn.

Theomedes paid him little mind, of course—and Damen was far from surprised about that as well. They dined together, Nikandros exhausted but happy to play buffer between Damen and his father. Theomedes seemed unconcerned with Vere’s refusal of aid, which bothered Damen more than he cared to admit.

‘We would have aided them,’ he signed, his fingers a little sharper than usual.

Theomedes wasn’t looking at him, listening only to the voice of Nikandros which frustrated Damen even more. ‘Yes,’ he said, Nikandros signing for him. ‘We might have, depending on the problem. But you can hardly blame them, Damianos. They, like so many others, are uncertain of your abilities. You will have to work harder to prove…’

‘Yes,’ Damen interrupted. ‘As I have been made painfully aware all of my life, I will have to work harder and longer to gain half their trust. But our kingdom is at risk.’

‘Your brother is doing little more than throwing a tantrum, which proves nothing more to me than I was right—he is unfit to rule. Even if he were not a bastard, I would be hesitant to place the crown on his head.’

That alone comforted Damen as he took his leave. He bade a goodnight to Nikandros, then went to his writing chambers and began to compose his first letter to Laurent. He would collect a week’s worth, and then send them off with a messenger.

It took him longer than he expected to finish the first, three pages of parchment, mostly filled with nonsense and longing. But he was pleased with it, and quickly stripped down for his bath. As he pushed into the chambers, he startled a little before he recognised the servant who quickly stepped forward to help him out of his chiton.

Erasmus. The servant’s gentle fingers worked the clasp of his pin, unwound the fabric, and when it was set aside, pushed the heels of his palms into Damen’s shoulders. He groaned, tipping his head back, letting Erasmus knead him. It wasn’t until the hands snuck lower, going for where Damen would have normally been roused, that he snapped to attention.

He was gentle when he grabbed Erasmus, turning and holding him firm by the wrists before letting go to sign, ‘No longer. I intend to become betrothed and from this moment on, my body belongs to him.’

Erasmus’ fingers were near panicked, shaking. ‘Exalted, forgive me, I…’

‘No,’ Damen signed carefully, a smile warming his face. ‘You have been devoted and a companion I won’t soon forget. You’re not going to be dismissed.’ Then, as he stared at Erasmus, he realised something. ‘You know sign fluently.’

Erasmus blinked, then nodded, bowing a little. ‘Yes, Exalted. My mother…’

‘Deaf,’ Damen signed for him, then nodded again. ‘I have a task. In a week’s time, I would like you to ride to Vere, and I would like you to stay there as long as the second born prince needs you.’

Erasmus’ cheeks heated. ‘Exalted…’

‘It is not a punishment, but a favour,’ Damen told him, cupping his cheek for a moment. ‘I would not trust anyone else with this task. I will send men as your guard. Please.’

Erasmus bowed low, his lashes fluttering along his cheeks. ‘Of course. I would be honoured.’

Damen stood back, pleased with his gift, pleased with his cleverness. He hoped Laurent would not see it as an insult, and resolved to send a letter explaining why, and what it would mean to Damen if Laurent would learn with his servant.

The nights without Laurent would be long, but the promise of seeing him again was getting brighter.

*** 

It was sometime near dawn, nearly a week later, when the commotion awoke Damen. He felt the vibrations of an attack, trained to recognise the threat, and he was instantly on his feet. He could see beyond his doors, torches flaring, and he quickly began to search for his sword.

Seconds later, his chamber doors flew open, and Damen readied himself for an attack just before he saw Erasmus, looking panicked.

‘Exalted, Kastor’s men…they’re in the castle. Your father…’

He did not need to finish. Damen already knew. Theomedes was dead.

He swallowed down the lump of grief, thinking quickly. He would have to take Kastor down on his own, and he needed to protect his people. Rushing to his desk, he gathered the bundle of letter’s he’d sent for Laurent, and then a sack of gold.

He turned back to Erasmus, and quickly thrust them into his hands. “You know a way out,” he voiced, trying to keep his words clear. “I need you to ride in secret, to Arles. Tell the crown prince that my father is dead, and I will fight until I gain the throne. Stay with Laurent until I arrive. Do you understand?”

Erasmus nodded, his entire body trembling, but Damen had faith in him. Erasmus was stealthy, could slip in and out of crowds easily. His face and hair gave away nothing—he could be Veretian, he could be Patran, he could be _anyone_.

“Go,” Damen said in a harsh whisper. He shoved Erasmus toward the door, and watched him disappear down the corridor. He could not know if he made it, but he would have faith.

Taking up his sword, Damen squared his shoulders, and prepared to meet his brother head-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll do my best not to leave this hanging for too long.


	7. Chapter 7

Laurent became aware of the commotion long after it entered the palace. He had every intention of ignoring it, wallowing still in Damen’s absence, but the moment he heard an Akielon accent, he was on his feet, doing his best to appear calm as he made it into the court. He stayed behind a pillar as he assessed the situation, but it didn’t take long before his stomach sank.

The man before the King was on his knees, his chiton filthy and in tatters, his face and limbs covered in wounds that had only just scabbed over. His hair, likely a soft brown, was in wild tangles, but he kept his composure, head bowed in deference.

His father looked wholly unimpressed with the situation, and the only way Laurent could tell Auguste was more alarmed than he appeared to be was the tension running along the side of his jaw.

“Father, we really should…”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense, and I can’t trust that he’s here for any purpose he claims if he continues to refuse me.”

Auguste sighed. “So perhaps we should fetch Laurent…”

“I won’t risk putting your brother in danger just because it’s possible Damianos…”

That alone propelled Laurent forward, his shoulders squared, his hands clenched in fists at his sides to keep them from shaking. Everything in him wanted to rush forward and shake the man on the ground until he gave up any and all information about Damen, but he was able to keep the impulse at bay.

“What is this now?” Laurent asked.

The King sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This man claims news from Ios, and something he will only show you, Laurent.”

“Letters,” said the man from the floor, still not looking up. “For Laurent, second born prince of Vere. The letters were meant only for him to see.”

Laurent glanced at Auguste who gave him a look of warning, but Laurent moved forward until he was in front of the man. He reached down, touching his shoulder, and eventually he looked up. He was attractive, in an abstract way, pleasing features, though he was battered from the road. “How did you come to be in such a state?”

“The King’s bastard son Kastor attacked. Laurent sent me to you, asked me to wait for him here. I am…a gift.”

Laurent blinked. “A…gift?” Surely Damen didn’t expect Laurent would want…

“A teacher,” the man clarified, and Laurent let out a breath of relief. “His…his language. And he sent letters.”

The rest of the man’s words sank in suddenly, and Laurent turned. “If Ios is under attack, surely we can spare a small company to…”

“No,” the King said, his jaw tense.

Laurent turned pleading eyes on Auguste. “We can spare a few men, brother. He needs aid. It’s unfair to refuse him when…”

“My hands are tied, Laurent,” Auguste said, weary.

Laurent swallowed, then turned back to the man. “What’s your name?”

“Erasmus, your highness.”

“And you said you have letters for me?”

“I…yes. I have them.” He started to fumble with his pack, but Laurent stayed him with a hand. “Take this man to the baths. Have him cleaned, his wounds treated. Paschal will be somewhere in the palace. Find him. When he’s in order, bring him to my chambers.”

“Laurent, you do not want an Akielon snake in your bed,” the King warned.

“He is no more viper than I am,” Laurent replied, his tone icy. His fear was taking over, and he needed…he needed to do something. He could not sit and wait weeks for news. He could not take it.

The King looked furious, and it was Auguste who rose, beckoning his brother along. “Come with me. Some wine for your nerves, and we will talk sensibly about this. Father…”

“Dismissed,” the King said with a weary wave of his hand.

Laurent wanted to snap back at him, but instead let his brother lead him through the doors, and into his own chambers. They took to the sitting room, and Laurent accepted the goblet of wine with a small scoff, refusing to drink it.

“I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that sending men to Akielos right now is a terrible idea,” Auguste said slowly, and before Laurent could bite back at him, he said, “but I am not opposed to asking a few of the guards if they would care to ride ahead. Guards who would be capable of slipping in and out without notice. Not a political envoy.”

Laurent saw the cleverness of it, and wanted to hug his brother. Instead he took a long drink of the wine. “Who would you ask?”

“I believe Jord could be motivated,” Auguste said, and his lips twitched.

Laurent almost snorted with laughter. Instead he cleared his throat. “I would ride with them if you would permit me to…”

“I will not,” Auguste said, and there was no room for argument in his tone. He let out a sharp breath. “Akielos is in the middle of civil unrest, if not all-out civil war. It’s too dangerous, and it would only invite war into our lands if we sent men now.”

“Father could have sent a company before, any sort of aid. I believe Damianos can beat his brother, but this feels wrong. You…you would have helped him, wouldn’t you?”

Auguste bowed his head. “I plead his case, but father would not hear reason.”

“He is deafer than the prince, then,” Laurent snapped. “Damianos would not have hesitated to help us, should we have needed it.”

“And it is why I believe he will make a good king,” Auguste said, then reached out, clasping Laurent’s arm.

Laurent looked at the pale, thin fingers on his brother’s hand, the glimmer of the signet ring, and he sighed. “I’m afraid. I…he asked me to wait for him. He wishes to court me when this is all said and done. I wish to be allowed. I’m unsure father will give his blessing.”

“It would be a good political match,” Auguste said slowly. “If this drags on long enough, it will not be our father who needs to give permission, but me. And you have it. Not all of us get to marry for love, Laurent, but if you have the chance, don’t let it go.”

“It’s out of my hands now,” Laurent said, but he felt better in Auguste’s presence. Soothed in a way no one else could.

“Go back to your chambers and wait for the Akielon. At the very least, you’ll have letters from your beloved, and that should give you some peace.”

Laurent nodded, setting his goblet down and pushing to stand. Before he reached the door, he turned to his brother. “Before Jord and the others depart, I wish to send a letter of my own. Don’t let them leave without it.”

“I won’t,” Auguste vowed, and Laurent closed the door on his way out.

*** 

Laurent couldn’t take waiting much longer than a few moments, and found himself hurrying to the servant’s baths instead of to his quarters. The servants quickly bowed, seeming flustered at his presence, but he ignored them as he burst into the room, and found Erasmus easing out of the soaking bath.

“Your highness,” Erasmus choked, trying to go to his knees which were still bruised and battered.

“Up,” Laurent said impatiently. “Dress him.”

The servant closest to Erasmus was Kallias, his brother’s favourite personal attendant. Laurent hadn’t ever paid him much mind before, but he liked the efficient and careful way Kallias handled Erasmus, drying him quickly, and easing him into a dressing gown instead of trying to tie him into clothing.

“He still needs medical attention, your highness,” Kallias said.

Laurent waved an impatient hand. “Paschal should have been sent for. We can wait.”

They moved to the drawing room, Erasmus’ eyes still lowered, and Laurent took a seat on a long, cushioned bench. “How do you speak Veretian so well?”

Erasmus glanced up briefly. “I…had a talent for languages, highness. It was one of my jobs in Ios.”

“It was you who taught Damianos, was it not? The Veretian he knows?”

Erasmus nodded shyly.

“And the sign language?”

“Oh,” Erasmus said, and flushed across his cheeks. “My mother is—was—like the prince. Deaf.” He cleared his throat. “It is not a common language, even in Akielos, but it was my first. I was brought on into the prince’s service because of it.”

It made sense. Laurent made a considering noise under his breath. “And he trusts you?”

“I believe so, your highness.”

Laurent’s next thought was interrupted by Paschal’s arrival. He seemed flustered, but he was, as always, efficient in his ministrations. It was less than a quarter of an hour, and Erasmus’ wounds were tended to, salve applied to prevent infection, and he was declared able to go about his duties.

“Nothing rigorous for at least a week,” Paschal warned the prince. “But otherwise he’s released.”

That was it, and Laurent gave a short nod before rising. “Dress him, then send him to my chambers.” He started to take a step away, then stopped. “The letters. I…”

Erasmus scrambled away from the hands now trying to draw him into clothing, and went to the crumpled pile of his things. Inside the tattered pack was a roll, a piece of silk binding it all together. Laurent’s fingers tingled with desire to get his hands on it, his breath catching in his throat that although he could not be with Damen, he could be hear him through his words.

“Forgive me, I should have given them earlier.”

“No harm done,” Laurent murmured, running his hand over the silk. He swallowed, then looked up. “I will see you shortly.”

He left after, heading for his chambers at a near run, more desperate for this than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire life. The door to his rooms shut with a loud slam, the vibrations hitting him right in the chest, and it was all he could do not to collapse right there and bury himself in the parchment.

He made it to his desk, the chair under him hard and uncomfortable, but he paid it no mind as his shaking fingers dug into the ties on the silk. He cursed at his fumbling, but eventually got them open, and everything unrolled gently. There was a thud, and Laurent saw a gold ring adorned with a ruby tumble out. There was Akielon carved along the side—it was Damen’s family ring, a royal token. 

He brushed his finger along the top, then curled it into his palm as he went for the first of the letters. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blocky Akielon style of writing, but the words flowed as easily as they did when Damen was there just a foot away from him, writing down his thoughts, his intentions. Everything Laurent wanted to know.

**My Beloved,**

**It was been less than one hour since I have left Arles, and already I ache. In such a short time, I’ve grown accustomed to knowing I could see you, any time I turn the right corner. I find myself seeing movement in the trees, expecting your smirk, the way the light plays off your hair. I can feel the ghost of your touch, your kiss. This is the only true torture I have known. I count the days until I return, it is my greatest motivation to end this civil disruption, so I can bring you home with me.**

**Always yours,  
Damen**

There was something about the use of his familiar name. Damen. It sent a white-hot rush through Laurent as he grabbed the second letter, and then the third. They were much the same. Declaring his love, his ache for Laurent, his determination to see it all finished. Some talked about his day, something Nikandros had said or done, the way Nikandros secretly pined for Jord. 

The letter upon arriving in Ios was different, more strained. It spoke of his tense relationship with his father, the fear of the unknown when Kastor had disappeared, the uncertainty he felt about the outcome. He was, of course, confident he would triumph, but he worried about the length of the battle, and how it might delay his return to see Laurent once again.

**…but I will not lose hope, and I will never give up. I have loved before, but never has my heart beat like this, the way it does when I think of you, and the way it did when I had you in my arms. This is what the poets write of, Laurent, when they write of eternity, when they write of actual love. I will wait a thousand lifetimes if I have to, but know I am yours. Always. Forever.**

It wasn’t signed.

The final letter was written in Akielon, shaky, hurried.

**Laurent—I send Erasmus to you. He is important to me, and will be valuable to you. Keep him as assurance I will find you. Kastor has breeched the city walls, and I must end this. I love you. Damen.**

Just as Laurent set the letter down, there was a knock on the door and he turned to see Erasmus led in. There was no one to accompany him, but Laurent knew men waited just outside the door, and he relaxed.

“Do you feel better from the ride?”

“I…” Erasmus cleared his throat, still staring at his feet. “I worry, your highness. There was nothing but chaos when I left. I stole away under the cover of darkness, but the militia occupied just outside the city walls and I nearly didn’t make it. I was only twelve when I was taken into the service of the Prince, and I’ve never known anything beyond it. I was…not equipped to survive a journey like that.”

“And yet you did,” Laurent pointed out.

“Out of obedience to the prince,” Erasmus said, his voice going a little stronger at the mention of Damianos.

“You love him,” Laurent said.

Erasmus flushed. “He is a good person, a kind person, and he will be a good king.”

“You believe he can triumph over his brother?” Laurent asked, clenching his fingers round the ring.

“I cannot do anything but have faith in him, your highness,” Erasmus admitted.

Laurent gave a sharp nod, then rose, circling the servant a few times. “You won’t be trusted here. We have a tentative treaty with Akielon, but my people are wary. They don’t…understand the cultural differences, and have been brought up with false ideas. You will be safe here if you choose to remain.”

“If I choose…” Erasmus started, then clamped his jaw shut.

“You do have a choice. We do not keep slaves here in Vere.”

“I was not a slave,” Erasmus said in a rush of air. “Akielos…”

“I know,” Laurent interrupted. “But there servants are given…less of a choice.”

Erasmus let out a puff of air, then said, “Forgive me, your highness. But I would choose to remain in the service of the crown prince, whatever my situation. He is a good man.”

As Laurent studied him, his face, the flush on his cheeks, the line of his shoulders, he realised the truth. “You were his lover.”

Erasmus went even redder. “I…your highness I…”

Laurent’s jealousy was overwhelming for a single moment, and he breathed through it. “I understand that the prince would take whomever he wished to bed…and it is not my place to decide for him if he…”

“You don’t understand,” Erasmus blurted, then flushed again, so red that Laurent had to wonder if there was any blood left in any other part of his body. “He refused me, when he returned to Ios. I…it was customary that I…visit him, attend him, when he returned from long journeys. But he refused me. He said his body belonged to only you, that it would remain that way. He has not…betrayed you, your highness.”

“Did this upset you?” Laurent asked, trying to sort through the sudden wave of emotions hitting him all at once.

“I only wish for him to be happy,” Erasmus replied.

Of course he did. He was a devoted servant, and his love being true as it was, he would have only wished Damianos peace and happiness. And perhaps it was not usual for a prince to refuse lovers, even once betrothed, but Laurent had a feeling Damen had always been unusual.

And the very fact he’d done this for him—without anything formal, with nothing but a vague promise…

He reached behind him for the chair to steady himself, and fought back the lump in his throat. “I wish for you to teach me his language,” he said. “You have taught others, yes?”

“I have,” Erasmus said, looking better in his complexion, and relived they were leaving the talk of lovers behind. “Nikandros was my first official pupil, though the prince heavily participated there. But I have…had great success.”

“Then we shall make it official in the morning, and this will be your sole duty until Prince Damianos returns to Vere, or sends for you himself.” Laurent took a breath. “I am…grateful for the service. There are men outside and will show you to your quarters.”

Erasmus bowed deeply, still looking uncertain, but he took his leave, leaving Laurent alone to his thoughts, and to the ache in his chest in the shape of Damen.

*** 

Darkness. Damen had never feared the darkness, but his sight had been the most vital thing to him, and he no longer had it now. He could feel the heavy band over his eyes, which was the only bit of comfort he took from this journey—wherever he was being taken. Whatever they had done, it was not permanent.

He used what he could from the rest of his senses—the smell of smoke from a fire, the feel of wood beneath him, the bitter taste of roots lingering on the back of his tongue from the drugs they’d given him to keep him pliant and docile.

They were travelling, that much he knew. In the moments between sleep and awake, he could feel the rocking of a wagon, and from the ache in his bones, he knew it had been several days.

In the conscious moments, he clung as hard as he could to his memories—the clips and bursts of them. He remembered sending Erasmus off to Laurent, then jumping into the fray, fighting off a dozen men of Kastor’s militia. He’d stepped into a mostly empty room, prepared to fight, when he saw the figure of his father, motionless in a pool of blood.

It had been that moment of weakness, that moment of hesitation, that had been his downfall. The blow to the head had knocked him out, and the steady dose of drugs kept him under. He recalled being given a bath, being locked into a collar and wrist-cuffs. He recalled trying to fight, but his limbs would not co-operate, and then he’d been blindfolded.

His only chance of escape now was to save his strength, to use the moments of unconsciousness to rest, to take whatever food and drink they gave him—in spite of the drug—and to wait. He would not go down without a fight, and Damen was stronger than most men. The moment he was free again, he would end things. He would put a sword to his brother’s throat, and he would take back his kingdom.

When all was said and done, he would right these wrongs, he would marry Laurent of Vere, and all would be well.

*** 

He did not come to again until he was in a cell. It was dark, but the blindfold had been removed. There was a chain attached from his collar to the wall, thick and too heavy to break. The drugs were still leaving his system, so it would be a while before he could formulate his plan.

Wherever he was, it smelt of damp, musty like a cave, with very little breeze. The air was cool, however, like something underground, and even on the stone floor he could feel the faintest vibrations of people moving about.

He stretched, shifted, and when his hand drifted to find if he was lying on a pillow or not, he found a crumpled bit of parchment.

A renewed sense of energy hit him, and he sat up, smoothing it out along his palm. There was a bit of light in the corner, he could just reach with the length of his chain, and he curled onto the ground, his eyes still a little foggy, but clear enough to make out the words which had been hastily scribbled.

_It was this or death, and I pray some day you will forgive me for choosing life, but I could not let him kill you. Your first instinct will be to reveal who you are, to escape your chains, and I tell you—you must not. The child at my breast is yours, Damianos, and Kastor knows this. The only way for the child to live is for him to believe you are dead. The men who took you believe you are another deaf servant—a fighter and entertainer for the prince, who enjoyed having men like himself around. You will survive the ring, I know this, and I’ve been told for all their old customs are barbaric, the Gladiators who do well in the ring survive the longest. Kastor will treat your son as his own, he will protect him, love him, give him the Kingdom he was denied being the bastard son—as your son is now. If he believes you are alive, that there is a chance you can reclaim your throne and name this child heir, he will not hesitate to kill him. The choice is yours, but I believe I know what your answer will be. You are strong, Damianos, and I know you will do what is right._

It didn’t need to be signed, of course. He would recognise Jokaste’s words anywhere, recognise the way she played each game, and knew exactly how she could have set this up. She knew that Damen, for all that he would never have wanted Kastor to sit where their father once sat, could not give up the life of his child for something so trivial as a Kingdom.

She had known his choice was made before he even understood the stakes.

And there was no mystery to where he was now.

He was being given to the games, as a Gladiator, in the only kingdom in the land willing to continue such a barbaric practise.

He was in Patras. And the rest of the world thought him dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reckon it's not spoilers to clear this up since someone was already confused by what was happening with Damen and Jokaste.
> 
> In this version (unlike canon) the baby actually is Damen's child, and Kastor believes Damen is dead. Jokaste is trying to use the threat against the child as leverage against Damen, hoping he'll choose to protect the child instead of attempting to escape.
> 
> Hopefully that clears things up for anyone who was confused between this and what happened in canon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly Jord/Nikandros, because I love them and they deserve their moment in the spotlight.

Jord was aching from head to toe from the journey. It felt like eternity on the road—every town they passed through a potential danger. There was talk and rumour about Akielos—of the civil war in Ios, rumours the King was dead, that the Prince had been killed, that Kastor had been captured and his head hung on the wall of traitors.

He attempted to keep his nerves in check—he rode with only Charls, the merchant, and in disguise, but he’d done far worse and far more dangerous in the past. But with every passing day, with every passing whisper, his fear that he would never see Nikandros again, his fear that he would have to bring the worst news back to the Prince, was growing.

They were at a small tavern on the road just after they passed the border into Delpha. Jord was bone-tired and feeling his hope slipping through his fingers. His Akielon was rusty, and what he did know did not extend to the tavern talk of the locals. He let Charls keep his ear out for news, and they spoke in Patran as Jord had been made aware very early on that there was a strong anti-Vere sentiment travelling round the country. The news of the Palace uprising had been blamed on both Kastor, and Vere’s refusal to help Damianos when he sought aid. Jord wished those alone were rumours, but he knew the truth too well. He had seen the staunch refusal on the King’s face, had seen the disappointment on Damianos’ as he and Nikandros rode out.

“Nikandros is the Kyros of this province,” Jord told Charls in low tones. “If he survived whatever happened at the palace, he’s likely to be here. He would never side with Kastor—chances are, he’s staging a rebellion.”

“Perhaps I can gain the location of his fort. I have enough to barter with in our wagons.” Charls stroked his chin thoughtfully, glancing round the tavern. “Keep my seat warm for me.” Then he was up, and situating himself in a throng of rough looking men.

Jord felt a wave of nerves for the merchant, but Charls’ cleverness was renowned far and wide through all provinces. His worry was simply that they would return empty-handed, him broken hearted, to deliver the worst sort of news to the Prince. His chest ached with it.

Closing his eyes, he gripped his tankard of ale, and tried not to think of Nikandros. It was near impossible, of course. Nikandros was the sort of man who commanded the eye of every room—whether it was in person or in memory. Strong, broad, high-born unlike Jord, but who had proven himself to be more than just the blood in his veins. His skin was peppered with battle scars, his eyes wary and suspicious. It was obvious he didn’t trust any of the Veretians, and in the beginning, that had extended to Jord and the other guards.

He was a fair man, however. He had been looking to work off nervous energy, and Jord—in his terrible, broken Akielon, offered an opponent. He went down quickly, though not without a fight, and it was the easy smile on Nikandros’ face when he offered Jord a hand up that changed things.

Damianos had been present for some of the fight, and Jord watched carefully as the two of them talked through the language of their hands. It was smooth, elegant in a way that most speech was not. Quick, short signs, and so much facial expression it almost made Jord uncomfortable.

The expressiveness on Nikandros’ face extended to their conversations later, over food and wine in the guards’ quarters. Jord had to assume it was simply Nikandros being used to communicating with the crown prince. He grew to appreciate it after several glasses of wine, and enjoyed the soft lilt of Nikandros’ accent as he talked freely of Akielos, of what they hoped to accomplish when they could quash the civil war.

Jord had been wary of the Akielon prince—he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of ruler a man might be if he was not sound in body. But Nikandros was quick to dissuade him of such thinking—talking long and eloquently of the Prince’s intelligence, of his strength and determination. It was Jord who also felt a strong disappointment when the Akielons had been turned away with nothing, and there was no part of him when Auguste approached him and asked him to go under cover to Akielos and find information their messengers had failed to bring back.

Even now, as he closed his eyes, he could feel Nikandros’ wide, warm hands on him. The slide of palms, sword-roughened, but seeking to give pleasure. The way he kissed—with warm purpose, with the same focus he gave to everything else. Jord had never been made love to like that, in the way that perhaps in that moment they were the only two people in the world.

He couldn’t live without it—he did not want to go another day without Nikandros’s lips on his. It terrified him to think it may never happen again, that it would one day be nothing more than a passing memory in his head.

He was near finished with his drink when Charls returned, looking flushed but eyes bright. “Marlas, which is less than a day’s ride away. It may take some convincing to be let in the doors but…”

“He will let me in,” Jord said, his voice heavy with relief. He was alive. As far as he knew now, Nikandros was alive. He wasn’t sure what it meant for Damianos, but it was something. “What else did they say?”

“The rumours of the fall of Prince Damianos seem to be gaining strength. There is a call to ascension at the King’s Meet, to crown the new ruler of Akielos. King Theomedes has fallen.”

It felt like a stone had lodged itself in Jord’s stomach, and he reached for his drink, finishing it off before pushing himself to stand. “Then we should ride to Marlas. If Nikandros will have us, we will get all the information we need.”

*** 

They broke for camp when neither of them could stay upright on their horses. Jord’s sleep was fitful, knowing that Nikandros was only a few hours away, but he forced himself to rest until the sun was up—helping himself to the campfire’s food long before Charls joined him. Neither of them spoke, the tension in the air thick, but Jord didn’t care. He simply wanted to see his face again, and figure out how he was to return home with news of the crown prince.

He had never been very close to Laurent, but the very last thing in the world he wanted to do was break the prince’s heart. And the thought that he might have some idea of happiness with Nikandros while Laurent suffered the grief of losing Damianos…

It was too much to process.

The two of them packed up camp quickly, and they began the approach to Marlas. The fort was heavily guarded, but as they were merchants, no one paid them any mind until they reached the gates. The guards seemed hesitant to let them through. “There are to be no trades dealt until the crowning of the new king.”

Jord swallowed thickly. “Please tell the Kyros that Jord of Vere has arrived.”

The guards immediately went tense, and one of them reached for his sword. “Come with me,” he said in a gruff tone. Jord was wholly unsurprised that they were immediately taken into custody.

The room they were placed in was a single step above a prison cell—high windows, and a locked door reinforce with steel. But there were chairs and a platter of food and wine delivered. Jord was appreciative that Charls took this all in stride, showing no signs of outward tension or fear. Jord was pacing the room, ignoring Charls’ eyes on him, and he waited for what felt like an impossible eternity.

Hours might have passed, though it could have easily been minutes before the door to the room opened. Jord’s heart was in his throat, beating wildly as he stared at the man there.

Nikandros looked as he always had looked—very Akielon with too much skin showing beneath his chiton. He wore a red cape showing his nobility, his hair more unkempt than Jord recalled, and there were deep circles under his eyes. A line of tension ran along his jaw, and his hands were clenched in fists at his sides.

“If you are here as reinforcements, it is too late,” he said in clipped Veretian.

Jord lowered his eyes. “The Prince Auguste attempted to sway his father, but the king would not be moved. A servant showed up from Akielos a week ago—battered from the road, carrying a signet ring from Prince Damianos.” His heart sank when he watched Nikandros flinch at the sound of Damianos’ name. “He claimed to be a gift from the crown prince, for Prince Laurent. To teach him his language.”

Nikandros’ face softened then. “Erasmus.”

“He said he was to stay until the prince arrived to relieve him of duties,” Jord said.

Nikandros’ eyes went low, his swallow audible in the quiet room. “Prince Damianos will not be coming to relieve Erasmus of his duties. He was struck down in the palace, his body burned. Kastor will be crowned King in his place.”

Jord felt all of his hopes crushed, and he took a step back. “Then it is as we feared. And I must bring this news back to the prince.”

Another silence settled on them, then Nikandros said, “I will accompany you. It is the least I can do before…” He stopped himself. “Will you dine with me, and I will provide better quarters for you and your companion.”

Jord glanced back at Charls who had risen, and was now bowing. He turned back to Nikandros and made a bow of his own. “It would be my honour.”

*** 

Dinner was a tense affair. Nikandros did his best to entertain both Charls and Jord—listening to Charls’ tales of his own travels with diplomacy and courtesy, but it was obvious from the line of his posture, he was in pain. Physical, possibly, and emotional. Jord could only imagine how Nikandros was feeling after the loss of Damianos.

Charls seemed to sense it, and he asked to retire shortly after they had been served sweets. Two of the guards escorted him away, then offered to take Jord to his own rooms, but Nikandros held up a hand to stay them. In what little Akielon Jord could understand, he believed they were told that Nikandros would handle it personally.

It was likely they knew what it meant, but none seemed to care.

Nikandros nodded his head toward the doors, and led Jord down a maze of corridors in total silence.

The Kyros’ quarters were large, but decorated simply and sparsely in the Akielon style. There was a separate bathing chamber, with a marble pool filled to the brim with warm water. Jord startled almost violently when Nikandros’ hands immediately went to the laces at his throat. At the feeling of tension, Nik drew back.

“Would you prefer I fetched you a servant or…”

“No,” Jord said, breathy and soft. “No I… Forgive me, I’m not used to these attentions and it seems…improper that a man of your rank should…should attend me.” Attend me felt so foreign on his tongue, Jord almost choked on the word.

Nikandros’ however, went soft all over, and his large hands cupped round Jord’s face. “It is not rank, but desire,” he murmured. “I have…missed you. These days have felt like a blunt sword carved my heart out, but with you here…”

Jord pushed into the kiss without warning. It took a moment, but Nikandros responded back with the brush of tongue along Jord’s lips, opening his mouth to the kiss, groaning as Jord’s hands settled on his waist. “I am sorry,” Jord murmured as Nik slowly pulled away.

“Can we talk of anything else?” Nik murmured, still not letting Jord get too far from his embrace. “Just for now. We can discuss it all, but I just need…” He hesitated, then shrugged almost helplessly. “You.”

Jord flushed so hot he thought he might faint, and controlled himself with one, long, steady breath. “Let me attend you, if you must attend me.”

Nik nodded, and then wasted no time letting his hands go to the laces on Jord’s clothing. They were garments of higher ranking men than Jord was, but necessary for the merchant’s disguise. He was impatient, frustrated with how long it took to draw the laces away, to push back the jacket, to fling his trousers from his thighs. But soon enough he was naked, standing near the marble pool as his hands went to the pin on Nikandros’ cape, to the one at his shoulder, and the tie at his waist.

A few tugs, and they were skin to skin, Nikandros keeping them close, chests pressed together and sharing warmth as Jord’s mouth opened under Nik’s. 

The bath seemed an afterthought, even as they sank into the water. It was a soaking bath, not meant for cleaning, but Nik pulled over scented soaps all the same and dragged lathered palms over Jord’s skin.

When it became too much, his want filling up ever space of him, he tugged Nik to the edge of the pool, and they emerged, ruddy and hot, both roused but not in a rush to take care of it. They towelled themselves off, and then still naked, moved into the bedchamber where Nikandros drew back the curtains and eased Jord onto the soft, straw mattress.

It was soothing to his aching bones, feeling the silk bedding beneath him, the soft pillow under his head as Nikandros’ larger body hovered over his. He paid Jord that intense attention again, his mouth lowering to search out all the points of his skin that made the breath in Jord’s lungs escape with a heady moan.

There was no oil, and Jord did not want to release Nikandros for any, so they curled hands round each other, matching strokes, Nikandros’ hips pushing into the curl of Jord’s palm until he was climaxing. At the feel of the hot, warm semen on his stomach, Jord’s eyes rolled back, and he felt himself cresting, crying out with his orgasm.

Nik cleaned them both up, a perfunctory swipe of a discarded towel, and then he settled his body next to Jord. The single oil lamp had burnt down to the dredges, and beyond him, Jord could see the darkening sky, the stars making their first appearance.

The weight of the world was waiting for them just outside the fort walls, and it made his heart clench.

“Tell me everything.”

Nik’s eyes shut, and his breath shook in his chest. “The palace was ambushed. When we arrived back in Ios, Kastor’s men had made a hasty retreat. Damianos didn’t trust it was over, and he began to plan his attack. He did not think his brother would use sneaky tactics against him—Akielons do not fight that way. He prepared for what he knew. It had been long enough, he asked me to ride back here, to rally my troops and set up garrisons around the capital. I was three days on the road before the attack. When we caught word, and saw the smoke rising from Ios, my men and I turned back, but it was too late. Damen’s headless body was displayed, called traitor. Kastor claimed Damianos was in league with the King of Vere. He’s trying to incite war against Vere now. He took the throne, with Jokaste at his side…” Nik’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “He did not entomb Damianos with his father, with the family he belonged with. Instead he burned him, at Jokaste’s behest. A traitor’s funeral.”

Jord reached for him, drawing soothing lines along his sides. “I must return to Vere. If he intends to start war…”

“Very few of the Kyroi are on his side. Though they were wary of Damianos as king, Kastor was a bastard—war-monger, and I don’t know that anyone truly believes Damianos was responsible for the death of his father. I wish I had…I wish I had never left.”

“He fought bravely. You know he did,” Jord said, his words sounding pathetic even to his own ears. He had lost men—friends and family—but none as close as Nikandros had been with the crowned prince.

Nikandros let out a soft breath, then leant in to kiss Jord softly on the mouth. “I should return to Vere with you. I will explain everything I know to the king, offer my allyship to him. I will not stand with Kastor. He murdered the rightful king of Akielos, and I cannot abide by that rulership. Others will follow. I will not relinquish my lands or my fort to that traitor.”

Jord nodded, clasping Nik’s hand gently between his own. “This is going to destroy Prince Laurent.”

Nik’s eyes closed softly, and he bowed his head. “I know. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

*** 

Laurent saw the retinue just under his window—a garrison of riders flying an Akielon flag—though it was not the standard of the crown prince. His heart thumped in his chest as he saw the head rider, his dark olive skin shining in the sun, and for just a breath of a moment, he thought perhaps every prayer he’d sent out had been answered.

But at the steps, he removed his helmet and Laurent’s stomach dropped at the sight of not Damianos, but his companion. Nikandros.

It could mean one thing only.

Numbness settled in his limbs, and it was by muscle memory alone he recalled how to walk, taking himself down the corridors, to the front dais where his father and brother had come out to meet the envoy. Jord was among them, still dressed in his mechant’s clothes, and the cloth merchant Charls on his horse several feet away, bowing.

Laurent slid up to Auguste’s elbow, and he felt his brother reach between them, their fingers grasping at each other for solidarity, for comfort.

Nikandros approached the family, dipping his knee for a low bow. “Forgive the intrusion without warning, your highness, but I come bearing news from Akielos.” His voice wavered, his Veretian still strong, but emotion was weighing thick on him. His eyes found Laurent’s for just a moment, before returning to the king. “Kastor of Akielos has stormed the castle. King Theomedes and Prince Damianos have fallen to his sword. He now declares war on Vere.”

Laurent heard the words, but did not yet process them.

His father let out a sigh. “Are you here merely as messenger, or to offer yourself as an ally to Vere?”

Nikandros’ face went hard and cold, but Laurent could see the decision had already been made. “In spite of Vere’s refusal to offer aid to the true king of Akielos, which brought about his fall, Delpha pledges itself as ally to Vere.”

Laurent felt Auguste’s fingers tighten on him, but suddenly the feel of him was too much. Suddenly the reality sank in, and it hit him all at once. Every kiss he shared with Damen, every touch, every breath across his face—it had been his last. His father’s refusal to do what was right meant Damen was dead.

He stood in stony, shocked silence until the Akielons had been led inside. When his father beckoned him with a hand, Laurent wrenched back. “Do not touch me.”

The King’s eyebrows rose, but he turned his attention to Auguste. “Get your brother under control, and keep his grief out of the public eye. When he is settled, join me in the court.”

Then he was gone.

Laurent let himself be piloted to his bedroom, but he did not let Auguste enter. Instead he ordered his guards away, bolted the door, then stood in the middle of the empty chamber, feeling every aching fear hit him like a landslide.

It was over. Akielos had lost, and Laurent’s chance at love had been taken with it.

His knees hit the floor before he realised it, and his body shook with tremors as a raw, aching sob ripped its way through his throat. His fingers clawed at the ground as grief overtook him, and he thought he would die from this. In fact, he prayed for it.

It wasn’t until sometime later that he realised there were hands on him, drawing him up, removing his jacket, easing him toward the bed.

His eyes blinked through the fog, and he saw Erasmus’ face over him. Irrational anger took over, for the briefest moment, and then it occurred to him—Erasmus had loved Damen once too. Laurent found himself clinging to the servant, holding tight as his grief continued to shake him.

“He is gone,” Laurent managed.

Erasmus’ voice was thick as he said, “I know, your highness. I can…leave you, if you wish. If there is no need to continue learning from me. I am happy to…”

“Stay,” Laurent said. He swallowed against the raw pain in his throat. “I wish you to stay. For Damianos.”

Erasmus nodded, then eased Laurent to his pillows and stood. He returned sometime later with a cup of hot drink, the herbs inside strong and fragrant. He pushed it to Laurent’s lips. “For the pain,” he said. “It will help you sleep.”

Laurent didn’t dare to guess if it was poisoned—a part of him refusing to care. He gulped it down, then lay back against his sheets and let himself feel, until the herbs took over, and everything went blessedly numb.

*** 

The only thing Damen could appreciate about his situation was that he complied as they expected, and none of them had delusions about his ability to understand. The trainers used crude pantomimes to instruct Damen in the practise ring, against the other gladiators—some men, some women. Damen was only grateful that Patras had stopped using the practise of hungry beasts to devour prisoners who were sentenced to death.

His life was this now—and his head was often so full of just trying to understand what was happening around him that he didn’t have time to think what he might do beyond this. He would abide by what Jokaste said—for now. But he would not stay imprisoned forever, he would not hide himself forever.

Days went by. He trained. He did not follow commands—he was whipped. He was fed a rich diet to keep his strength up, and he quickly rose in the ranks. The other fighters did not seem to appreciate it, but he won—each tournament he was bowing to the King and Prince of Patras—men he had heard of, but had never met before. He wondered how different things might be if he had.

At night, as he lay on his palette in the corner of his rooms, his mind went to Laurent. How Laurent must think him dead, how he might have grieved. He ached for him, and knew he would not let himself be apart from Laurent forever. He would endure this, as long as he must—but not for the rest of his life. He would break free of this place, he would save his son, he would remove Kastor from the throne, and he would take Laurent by his side.

Damen was beaten. But only for now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping to finish this fic before my term started, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. All the same, I'm going to be working as quick as I can to get the next few chapters out, which will be the end of the fic. We're reaching the conclusion soon--just two more chapters, plus an epilogue, so I'm pretty sure I can do it--if not by Wednesday, than by next weekend.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this up to now, I've had way too much fun with this AU. xx

Damen ached, but he felt a sense of accomplishment which immediately bothered him because he didn’t want to sink into the mentality that this was forever. He’d earnt quarters of his own—earnt a pile of gold coin, and the favour of the Patran prince—and even the king on some occasions. He was obedient, and he was good. The people of Patras loved him—even if he hid behind his thick mask, even if he beat out all the other gladiators in nearly every match. He could feel the stomping of their feet, the vibration of their cheers in the air as he bowed to the royal family after his victories. The few matches he lost, he was always pardoned.

The walls of his quarters, behind a long tapestry, were marred with charcoal marks, telling him he had been here two full seasons, the third nearly complete. Nearly eight months now, where the world thought him dead, and his brother having taken the throne.

He knew some Patran, had mastered the written language long ago with Erasmus who sought to make sure Damen could communicate in the languages of the Empire, but he could not make out gossip on their lips, and he had made no friends of the other gladiators, and no one was willing to learn his language.

The guards used a system of pantomime, easy to understand, and he could tell by the look of their faces, they didn’t think him capable of anything more complex than that. It was just as well. He continued his planning. He let them think reading and writing—that language in nearly all forms—was lost to him. The only thing he was truly desperate for was news of the outside.

There was no telling what Kastor might do, and Damen laid awake at night wondering of Vere, of Laurent and Auguste—of Nikandros whom he knew would hold Marlas until Kastor forced his hand. He wondered if that time had come, if the other Kyroi had bowed to him. They were no fans of Damianos, but they hated Kastor more.

At least, most of them had, until Damianos and Theomedes had been announced dead.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Damen collapsed on his mattress, the silks against his skin soft. He wished for his old baths—the hot water to unknot his muscles, servants to help calm him. He wished for Laurent’s easy hands, the softness of his mouth.

They took care of him here—he was important, he was the favoured fighter in their ring—but he was still a prisoner. He still wore the gladiator cuffs and collar. He would be rich, but like this, he would never be free.

Damen closed his eyes, let the exhaustion of the day, of the match he’d won more easily than he probably should have, wash over him. Sleep was too near, and it was claiming him.

*** 

It felt like hours, but Damen realised it was probably far less when something roused him. It took him a moment to realise he was feeling the air shift, the ground shaking—like a commotion when the trainers brought in a particularly unruly new gladiator. So many of them were prisoners of war, and most were killed before they made it into the arena.

Concerned, Damen scrubbed the sleep from his eyes before repining his chiton, and stepping into the corridor. He could see torch light, and see the shadows of men moving, and he followed them until he reached the common area. Several of the trainers were surrounding a man lying on the floor, half conscious. His face was battered, unrecognisable with his swollen eyelids and busted mouth. 

But there was something familiar about him—the dark olive of his skin, the expanse of his shoulders, the style of chiton.

The man was Akielon, and from the size of him, there was a chance he was a soldier.

Damen’s heart began to race.

One of the trainers was on his knees, slapping the man in the face, his mouth moving with angry, harsh words, and Damen reacted. He rushed forward, making a noise in the back of his throat to gain their attention. Two of the trainers turned, and Damen pointed at the man, then at himself.

He watched them speak to each other, then the trainer on the ground rose and said something to Damen which he could not read from his lips, but his face told the story. The man was Damen’s problem now.

It was not the first time Damen would help treat a fellow gladiator, and he was well-versed in caring for wounds. They had medical staff for those who’d earnt it, but this man had just been brought in, and by the state of him, it had not been easy.

Lifting the man to his feet, Damen half-dragged him back to his quarters, easing him onto his bed before fetching salves, water, and a cloth to tend his wounds. If this man survived, he might be the key to everything Damen wanted to know—information about Kastor, about Akielos, whether or not Vere attempted to retaliate when they learnt Damen had been murdered.

There was no telling what Kastor’s story was, but Damen knew Laurent would not believe a word of it.

He was starved for knowledge, and that moved his hands, making quick work of the man’s wounds. The salves would take a few days to reduce the swelling, but the man managed to open a single eye, the dark brown surrounded by red, but it was clear the way it fixed on him, he could see.

His mouth moved, and Damen did have a prayer of reading his lips, except they were swollen. He touched the side of the man’s throat to feel the vibrations, to verify he was capable of speaking aloud. Then, he pointed to his ear, and shook his head.

“No,” he said, the first word he’d spoken aloud since being brought to Patras.

The man’s eyes flickered closed, then open, then closed a final time. His breathing evened, and though Damen should find other accommodations for him, he let him sleep in Damen’s gladiator silks.

*** 

It was three days of helping the Akielon stranger drink broth, of tending his wounds between his training sessions in the arena, and assuring he did not die. The trainers seemed more relieved that Damen had a task than they worried about why Damen was so insistent on taking care of this man. They provided him with what he needed, and even brought in a second palette for the stranger to sleep on.

Damen, for his part, watched him carefully, watched the swelling reduce as he slowly started to resemble a man which Damen thought he may have seen before. It had been a long eight months, and things were starting to fade, but Damen was becoming very certain that this man was a palace guard—if not at least a guard in Delpha.

His heart raced with the thought of it. And then he felt panic should this man recognise him, and tell the others his true identity. Damen could not risk that—not just yet, not without a plan. Not without stronger back-up than his own two hands.

It was on the fourth afternoon the man truly became aware. He could open both eyes, and his mouth had healed enough to allow him proper food. When Damen returned from his afternoon training, he saw the man’s eyes—clear-gazed, and startled when they set on Damen.

His mouth started to move in a familiar word, and Damen rushed over, clamping a hand over it. He shook his head firmly, keeping the man’s gaze locked to his own, desperate for understanding. “No,” he said, hoping his word came out soft. “Please.”

The man swallowed, then nodded carefully. When Damen pulled his hand away, he stayed silent.

Biting his lip, Damen’s mind began to whirr, and he quickly stood, closing the door to his quarters, then grabbed a piece of the charcoal he’d been using to mark his days there. He moved to the wall which was partially obscured by his table and wrote in small, Akielon letters- **no one can know.** When it was clear the man could read them, he scrubbed it away with the palm of his hand.

The man stretched out his own fingers, and Damen felt a rush. This was it—a way to communicate, a way to get the information he needed. Damen handed the charcoal over, then grabbed a dry cloth so they could erase the evidence should they be caught out.

_What happened? Why are you here?_

**Kastor**. Damen sighed, then wrote, **I will escape, but I need information. You were a palace guard.**

_My name is Pallas. I escaped after your death to Delpha. It was attacked, Nikandros managed to fight off Kastor’s men, but some of us were taken prisoner. I was knocked out, woke up with Patran guards beating me, collaring me._

Damen frowned. He supposed it was very like Kastor to humiliate those loyal to Damen by sending them into this service, and he supposed as Kastor didn’t know he was alive, he didn’t realise what a gift he was sending him.

He took the charcoal back, wiped the wall clear, then wrote, **Who is loyal to Kastor?**

_Very few. Civil war stopped war on Vere._

Damen didn’t realise what relief he would feel at those words, and he took a moment to bask in them. **Did Vere retaliate?**

_Vere was stopped by the King. He died, and the coronation of Auguste de Vere took place last month._

That hit Damen like a physical blow, but not in a terrible way. It meant if he could escape—when he escaped—he may have a friend over the border. It was only a matter of trying.

**Kastor cannot know I am alive,** Damen told Pallas, aware of the leverage he was giving this guard, and he hoped for the loyalty which got Pallas thrown into custody. **I will protect you when I escape, but I ask for your loyalty now.**

_I am forever loyal, Exalted._

Damen felt a rush, and breathed through it. **Then we must play at gladiators, and never let slip who we truly are. And when the time comes, we will be free of this place.**

He swiped the wall clean, and Pallas managed a bow before resuming a casual position with him. Damen didn’t have everything he needed just yet—he was with information, but without the means to escape or get word to Laurent. But he would think on it, he wouldn’t give up hope. And now with at least one person at his side, Damen felt freedom closer than before.

*** 

Laurent had been miserable for months, though most of the kingdom assumed it was in mourning for his father. But the death of the man who had never really given him more than a passing glance—and the man Laurent blamed for the death of Damianos—had been shadowed by the well of grief Laurent had not been able to shake.

He managed to keep his poise during Auguste’s ascension, and of course he was proud of his brother, and knew now his place would be at Auguste’s side for there was not much left for him outside of the palace. Auguste took it in stride, but the look in his eyes said, _for now_ , because he was not the sort to let his brother wallow. What he couldn’t seem to understand, however, was this was not wallowing.

When Damianos had died, Laurent’s heart had died along with him. He kept up pretences, continued to learn, continued to help with diplomatic envoy and peace making, and strategy as that’s what his mind was best at. But everything else in him was cold.

Erasmus stayed with him—teaching him first Damen’s language, then the outside villagers’ Akielon so that if Laurent ever travelled, he would be able to understand the slang spoken by those who lived far from the palace. Erasmus was a patient teacher, a dedicated servant—his mourning was profound and long, but he never attempted to bring Laurent down with it.

From the shadows, Laurent watched a blossoming romance growing between Erasmus and Kallias, which he gave his blessing for when he’d found them directly. Erasmus had feared going back to Akielos. When Auguste sent troops there to attempt to gain information and level a threat against Kastor, they quickly learnt Akielos had dissolved into the civil war Damianos had been trying to prevent. The most recent attack had been against Delpha, and Auguste had learnt of it just before Kastor’s troops arrived. He sent men, and they were able to push Kastor’s men back and protect the fort and the lands, but they had lost men to the battle.

Nikandros had suffered as much as Laurent, and it was plain on his face every time he arrived in Arles to spend time with Jord. He was a guest of honour during the funeral for their father, and spent near a month before he was called back to Delpha.

The Kyroi were slowly starting to band together, and Nikandros suspected they would attempt to overthrow the capital if they could gain enough men. Laurent merely held his breath, and prayed that the man who had killed his beloved would find a painful death.

It was late in the evening, as the markets were starting to close when Laurent donned the clothes of a commoner. He hid his hair beneath a low hat—a gift from Charls—and took to the streets. He did this more often than he ever had in the past, an attempt to clear his head, to bring warmth back into his limbs, but it never worked.

It was, at the very least, a distraction so he didn’t cease his wanderings. He assumed Auguste knew of it, but as Laurent hadn’t caused trouble in some time, and no one seemed to bother him, he said nothing.

The sun was just setting over the horizon when Laurent turned the corner to an alley, and he heard a scuffle. There was a gruff voice, then a smaller one—full of snark and venom—that spoke back. “I said don’t touch…”

“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up. Such a pretty thing anyway, maybe I should…”

Laurent acted without really thinking, pulling a knife from his belt. He moved quickly, his training paying off as he took the large man by surprise, managed to get him against the wall, his head hitting the brick enough to knock him to the ground. Laurent held his boot to the man’s throat, his life glinting in his hand with the last of the setting sun, and he tipped his head back so the man could get a full view of who he was dealing with.

“We have a very specific way of dealing with people like you in Vere.”

As Laurent expected, the evening patrol heard the scuffle. They seemed startled to find their prince with his heel on the throat of a man, but he was quickly taken into custody, and Laurent sheathed his knife before turning back to the child he’d heard.

It was hard to discern what sort of child it was, filthy from head to toe, dressed in tatters and clutching a bag. The child looked defiant though, as Laurent knelt down, and flinched away when Laurent reached out a careful hand.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I’m not giving you my services for saving me. I didn’t need your help.” There was a deeper edge to the child’s voice that betrayed his age—somewhere closer to puberty, but his youthful face kept his innocence.

“I’m not asking for anything,” Laurent said mildly. He surveyed the child—the dark hair which would fall in curls once it was clean, and olive skin under the filth. He was skin and bones, however, and by the shake in his hands probably hadn’t eaten in some time. “What’s your name.”

The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Nicaise,” he finally said. There was a slight accent to it, though it was a Veretian name.

“Are you waiting here for someone?” Laurent asked.

Nicaise sniffed, his face considering, and Laurent could see him debating between the truth and a lie. “I’m…just here for a few days. My…my mother sent me.”

With the waver in his voice, Laurent could tell already the truth of the story. The boy’s parents were dead, he was destitute, and Laurent was terrified to know what he might have done in order to stay alive this far. “I live at the castle,” he said.

Nicaise blinked, then rolled his eyes. “I know who you are.”

“Do you also know I have large baths, many servants, and a lot of food. All of which you can use without payment.”

Nicaise looked startled. “Why?”

Laurent considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Because I know what it feels like inside when you lose the thing you love most. And there’s no sense in the outside pain matching the inside. I can help. There’s no reason for you to suffer in this city. And there’s plenty of room in the castle.”

“I’m lowborn,” Nicaise said, jutting his chin out.

Laurent chuckled, then rose, holding his hand out. “So you are. Now are you coming or not? The King Auguste loves sweetmeats, but if we get to supper early enough, there will be some left over for the both of us.”

*** 

Laurent did not expect Nicaise to follow him, but he supposed there came a breaking point in even the most stubborn of creatures, and though Nicaise was proud, he was young. And he was starving. He was tired of the fight he’d put up to get to Arles, and Laurent could not abide by a child suffering so. He knew Auguste would agree with him, and was unsurprised by his brother’s hug when Laurent explained the situation.

“He is contrary,” Laurent said. “Push-back, I think, to see what it will take for us to throw him out. We can give him a position of some sort. Even if it’s just a ward.”

Auguste nodded, breathing out, smiling.

It became infuriating, and Laurent pushed away? “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Because I have watched you cold and unfeeling for so many months, and it’s nice to see you…open up again.”

Laurent wanted to rebel against that, to claim that one small act of kindness did not prove his heart had not been burnt along with Damen’s body. But he couldn’t deny it was nice to feel something, and he couldn’t deny that he was completely cold now. In a way, he supposed it’s something Damianos would have done, and that might have been what motivated his hand. Laurent was unsure if he truly was a good person, but doing good deeds in Damen’s memory seemed the thing to do.

“I’ll speak with him before supper. Be prepared for it to be…messy.”

Auguste chuckled. “I should get the practise all the same, for when a child is being reared in the palace.”

Laurent didn’t have the heart to remind him that as children, they had been relegated to servants, and had only been allowed to join their father and mother when they were of an age that they could be reasoned with. And he did not mention to Auguste that when he married, and when he had children, the same would likely happen.

He knew his brother would not be as cold as their father was, but it was still the palace, and Auguste was still king. Very little would be allowed to change.

Laurent went to his quarters, and was startled to find Nicaise in his sitting room. He had been right about the boy—he had the face of a fae—young, beautiful, deceiving—and he was older than Laurent initially assumed. He was dressed in Veretian style, the clothes pinned so they did not appear to be ill-fitted, but Laurent knew they would have to call a tailor come morning.

His hair had been scrubbed, brushed, and hung in soft curls which were drying beside the fire. His eyes were narrowed, suspicious as Laurent walked to a table and poured two cups of wine. He offered one to Nicaise, whose shaking had subsided, so he supposed the boy had also been fed near the baths.

“Where are you from?” Laurent asked as he sat in his chair.

Nicaise studied him for a while. “I was born here, in Arles. My mother was Veretian, but my father was the prince’s guard in Patras, so we were there. But he was killed last year, by a stray spear during a gladiator tournament, and my mother was ill last month. She said I could find family here—that my grandfather would take me in, but he has been dead for some time. I think she was unaware.”

Laurent nodded carefully. “I forgot in Patras they still practise the games.”

“I like them,” Nicaise said, almost like he was trying to be upsetting.

Laurent snorted. “I suppose you would. Your Veretian is spoken very well.”

“My mother always spoke to me in her tongue at home,” he said with a lazy shrug. “She wanted me to marry highborn, so she expected me to be educated.”

“Perhaps you shall be,” Laurent said with an easy shrug. He sipped his wine for another moment. “You’re pretty enough, which I assume was what saved you on the road.”

Nicaise’s cheeks pinked. “You said I wouldn’t…”

“You won’t,” Laurent said, quick and fierce. “We do not abide by the exploitation of children in Vere.”

“I don’t know that word,” Nicaise admitted after a moment.

“We will not let people take advantage of you,” Laurent explained patiently. “The king has agreed to take you on as a palace ward. You can be educated, if you wish. Or you can learn a trade. There will be enough to keep you occupied, and from getting into trouble.”

“And if I get into trouble?” Nicaise challenged.

“You shall be punished.” Laurent paused, then offered a wry grin. “I caused a lot of trouble when I was your age. I did not enjoy my punishments. They were incentive to behave better.”

“Were you beaten?” Nicase asked in a quiet voice.

Laurent pushed himself to stand, setting his wine down, and considered the question. Then with a breath he said, “Worse. I was expected to sit quiet, in a chair, for several hours. And write pages and pages of lines.”

*** 

Laurent felt a rush of annoyance at the afternoon. He’d been told with very little warning about the palace hosting the Patran prince for talks of the civil unrest in Akielos. Laurent had been on the council when Vere first reached out to Patras for possible aid if Kastor attacked, but infuriatingly, Patras had declared their choice to remain neutral. It became moot point, Laurent supposed, when Kastor’s resources were devoted to fighting the war within his own borders, but Laurent’s bitterness over the Patran refusal to take sides did not die down.

Over the last few weeks, Laurent had dedicated himself to the education of Nicaise—who, for all of his contrary nature, proved to be a dedicated pupil. Erasmus seemed more delighted to have a second, younger student, and although Nicaise was often unkind about Erasmus being from Akielos, he absorbed the information with relish.

Laurent listened quietly to the last of Nicaise’s lessons as he stared at the small portrait on his desk. He had it commissioned of Damianos, and the preliminary sketches were so like him, it made Laurent ache with loss. He had thought perhaps seeing his face again would ease the pain, but he’d been wrong.

He let out a shaking sigh, and moved to close the book when he felt a touch on his wrist. Looking up, he saw Nicaise frowning down at the portrait.

“Do you like gladiators?”

Laurent blinked. “I find it a barbaric custom. One of the many reasons I am not feeling thrilled to speak with Prince Torveld this coming evening.”

Nicaise shook his head. “So why are you holding a portrait of one? I have noticed before that you sometimes seem sad, and it’s worse on your face now when you’re looking at him. If you desire him so much, why not just go and see him.”

Laurent swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Don’t be foolish, Nicaise. This is no gladiator, this is Damianos of Akielos, the fallen king.”

Nicaise shook his head more firmly. “No. That is the silent one. He was new, Akielon, which maybe is why you mistake him. He always wears his helmet during battles, but my father took me to see him before, in the training arena. He doesn’t speak at all, you know. My father said he couldn’t hear a word we said, either. He was strong—strongest in all of Patras, and most favoured.”

Laurent felt something stirring in him, bright, painful. Like hope. He swallowed, took in a shaking breath, didn’t dare to believe, even for a second… “Do you know how he came to be in a Patran gladiator ring?”

Nicaise snorted, shrugging. “Why are any of them there? Criminals, to pay off debt. Perhaps someone in Akielos was not happy with him. You’re wise to choose him as a favourite. Before my mother and I left, it was said he would remain undefeated.”

Laurent’s fingers were shaking, and he gripped the edge of the desk, suddenly desperate to rise, to find the Patran Prince and shake him until the answers tumbled out of him. But he was more clever than that, and more strong. He gathered himself, set the portrait aside, then laid a hand on Nicaise’ shoulder.

“Come. We’re entertaining a royal delegate, and it’s time you learnt how to behave at a formal banquet.”

*** 

It was perhaps a mark of his intelligence and his sheer will to have the proper information that Laurent kept his composure as he entered the room where the Patran delegates were having refreshments. It was not the first time Vere had hosted Prince Torveld—he, like Laurent, was a second born son, and relegated to the duty of Patran ambassador to Vere.

They were similar to the Akielons in several ways—generally smaller in stature, but they favoured clothing which covered less of the body, heavy gold ornaments, though in their cities, they preferred simple architecture and décor. They were also the last culture to hold on to barbaric practises like gladiator rings, and had fought the Empire for decades when it was decreed that slavery should be abolished.

Vere had been the first to relinquish all ideas of slavery, and reading the history, Laurent had often been surprised at how quickly the two kingdoms managed to repair a relationship.

It had been obvious years ago that Auguste became aware Torveld had eyes for Laurent. He was not the first prince who would have, and certainly would not be the last. Laurent had never hidden his preferences, and although under other circumstances, he supposed Torveld would not be the worst choice he could make, Laurent had never been able to find interest in him.

He was broad, a well-trained fighter, and intelligent. But he did not like to travel beyond his borders, and kept his audience limited to those Veretians he trusted. Laurent did not prefer that in a partner, and now that Damianos had taken his heart, Laurent was certain there was no one for him.

He felt the flicker of hope in his chest again, and felt angry it was there. He could not take another heartbreak.

All the same, he would follow this until he knew for certain this gladiator was not his Damianos.

Snatching wine from a passing servant, Laurent approached Torveld who was speaking to Vannes with a wide smile. When he noticed the Veretian prince, he quickly turned his attention. “Laurent! Your brother said he was unsure you would be joining us this evening.”

Laurent shrugged one shoulder. “I’m sure I would have regretted missing the dinner, and our conversations.”

Vannes took that as a signal to leave, and she did so after casting Torveld with a knowing smile. Laurent sighed internally, but did not pull back.

“We have a new Palace Ward. A small boy from Patras whose father was in your brother’s guard. He was telling me a delightful story about Patras’ new favoured gladiator.”

“Ah yes, the Silent One,” Torveld said, nodding approvingly. “Came to us from Akielos, from the King’s household.”

Laurent swallowed thickly. “I hear he is like that of Damianos. Deaf.”

Torveld sipped his wine, nodding again. “I did not know much about him—you know I never met Damianos or any of Kastor’s family. But he was brought to us as a gift. He had served under the prince. Damianos found it amusing to be entertained by a man like him.”

“And you trust Kastor’s word on that?” Laurent challenged.

Torveld’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I not?” Then he sighed, smiling wryly. “I understand the idea of our gladiator ring turns your stomach, Laurent. But they are not slaves, I assure you. They are well cared for, well paid. The men who are criminals work off their crimes, and the men who are not are renowned in our country—wanted, cherished.”

“So you say,” Laurent replied with a small hum, and leant in. He was aware of turning on his charm, aware of the way it made Torveld’s cheeks darken. “I should like to see this for myself. Vere has many assumptions about Patras, and perhaps it’s time to put the rest the idea that it is…barbaric.” He swallowed a sip of wine, then met Torveld’s eyes. “That is, if you would not be opposed to hosting a prince of Vere.”

“Of course not,” Torveld said, his voice low, shaking slightly. He recovered himself, then smiled. “That is a first, I must say.”

Laurent shrugged, keeping himself in close with Torveld. “I think it is high time. And only fair. You have compromised so much for us, and I would like to return the favour. I hear Patras is nice this time of year.”

Torveld reached out, letting his hand linger on Laurent’s sleeve. “Perhaps my delegation and I can return a few days early. If your brother would spare you.”

“I think,” Laurent said, and looked across the room where Auguste was watching with a glimmer in his eye, “he would not be opposed to the idea.”

*** 

Although Auguste was rightfully suspicious of Laurent’s intentions—as Laurent rarely did anything without a dozen motivations—he was not going to stand in Laurent’s way. He arranged for Laurent’s guard, sending Jord with him per Laurent’s request.

They set out at dawn two days later, and Laurent found himself dizzy with anxiety, with anticipation of what he might find. The glimmer of hope had erupted into a massive fire in his limbs, and it was all he could do not to take the reins of his horse and take charge of the slow-moving procession. It would be a several days’ ride to the capital, and after that, at least another to refresh themselves before he would attend the games.

Then Laurent could put it to rest—or, should Nicaise be right about this gladiator, he would have to take matters into his hands. He would have to find out why Damianos had allowed himself to be captured, and held prisoner as a gladiator for nearly a year.

He caught Jord staring at him with a deep frown, and it was only when they were out of earshot of any Patran riders that he spoke.

“I received some information,” he said quietly in Akielon, knowing Jord was far more proficient in it now that he had been with Nikandros. “There is a gladiator rumoured to be…too much like Damianos to be investigated.”

Jord sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Laurent…”

Laurent prickled, but allowed it to pass before he answered. “I am aware,” he said very slowly, “that it seems foolish, that I am clinging to any hope that Damianos is alive. But it cannot be helped, and I owe it to both myself and Nikandros, and to the kingdom of Akielos, not to investigate when there is perhaps a hope that Kastor did not kill him, but instead sent him as prisoner to another land.”

“But if that’s the case, why would Patras keep him? Why would Torveld not release a man who should be a king?” Jord asked, but he didn’t sound as contrary as Laurent expected.

Laurent’s eyes narrowed, and he turned them to the road ahead. The Patran border was close, and with every step, they neared the answer. “That, Jord, is what I intend to find out.”

*** 

There was a heavy commotion in the training arena, and it was hours upon hours before Damen could get Pallas alone to question him. The trainers were more brutal than usual, and four men were put to their chambers from injury before the day was out.

Damen, himself, ached from head to toe, but he forced himself to seek out Pallas, and shut the door for privacy. He went immediately to the space on the wall they used, and wrote, **Tell me what they are saying.**

_It is a royal delegation from Vere to watch the coming games. The second-born prince arrives in three days’ time._

Damen felt something in him he had not felt in months. 

Hope.

In three days, Laurent would be in the borders of Patras. In three days, Laurent would watch him fight. And in three days, Damen would finally have his means to escape.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update. The next one will be more satisfying, I promise. The actual Damen/Laurent reunion.

Laurent had been to the Patran palace a few times when he was far younger, but the landscape looked the same. The Patran capital was in the north—far cooler than the heat rumoured in Akielos, but warmer than Vere. Their ride in was mottled with clouds, which seemed to mirror Laurent’s mood, and it took every bit of his strength to make polite conversation with Torveld who seemed determined to ride directly beside him for the last leg of the journey.

Laurent, of course, could feel Jord’s eyes on him. He was riding with Lazar, his second in command, stoic in the saddle, his eyes narrowed and searching for any sign of Damen. There were posters, of course, of the gladiator battles which lined the town walls, but the drawings were crude and showed nothing but wide-shouldered men with heavy helmets on. There was no way to tell if one of the men resembled Damianos.

They were met by the King, Torveld’s brother, and given a welcome reception which was short—full of tense conversation, wine and cheeses brought on a platter. Torgeir could not help but give a suspicious look toward Laurent, who had been invited many times, but had declined each invitation once he’d come of age.

“I didn’t think we’d get you to cross our borders, Prince Laurent.” He sipped his wine, his gaze flickering over toward his brother who stood at Laurent’s elbow.

Laurent gave him an easy smile in spite of the raging hurricane of desperation in his gut. “I suppose it was time. Your brother, of course, makes a compelling argument for your traditions.”

“You mean the Gladiators,” Torgier said, then laughed. “Torveld has always been rather captivated by the large men, though his preferences for bedmates lie…elsewhere.”

Torveld pinked, but Laurent merely shrugged. “We can all appreciate a certain aesthetic, I suppose. I am looking forward to the entertainment tomorrow night. I wonder if I might get a tour of the training arena, however. My curiosity has been piqued.”

“I would offer one myself,” Torveld said, touching Laurent’s arm, “but the trainers ask us not to disturb their routine just before the games. After, of course, I would be more than happy to.”

Laurent felt a wash of disappointment, but nodded all the same. “It’s just as well. My body is fatigued from the long journey.”

“Perhaps we should send someone to show you to your rooms. Your men, of course, are welcome to the barracks. I assure you, they’re quite comfortable,” Torgier said.

“That would be most agreeable, your highness. I thank you for your generosity.” Laurent stepped back, and seconds later a servant was showing him away.

He was not quite out of earshot when he heard the king lean into his brother to say, “I suppose you could have chosen worse. It seems he’s finally coming round.”

Laurent tried to ignore the wash of guilt, for even if this man turned out to be nothing, he would be breaking the prince’s heart.

*** 

For his part, Laurent actually attempted sleep after being shown to his rooms. They weren’t as lavish as the rooms in Vere, but the bed was soft, and he’d been left food and drink should he wake hungry. Laurent couldn’t begin to imagine putting anything in his stomach, however. The gladiator games were to be held early the next afternoon. Mere hours from now, Laurent would be able to see if the heavens had provided the one miracle he’d been begging for for nearly a year now.

He would be relieved to see him alive, and then possibly furious with Damen that he’d allowed this to carry on for so long. But the very fact he might have the privilege of being furious with Damen instead of spending the rest of his life mourning what could have been…

It was too much to contemplate.

Laurent rose while the sky was still dark, dressing, and taking to the corridors. He was restless, and even the wide walls and high ceilings of the Patran Palace felt claustrophobic. He found his way to the back gardens, and saw a few lamps had remained lit amongst the greenery.

He walked a path until he came to an ornate fountain, and stopped, closing his eyes to listen to the gentle stream of water. The sound had always been soothing to him, but now it did very little to take the edge off his nerves.

A few moments later, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a voice. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He turned to see Torveld in a thick dressing gown, his hair more mussed than usual, his feet in house shoes as he shuffled forward.

Laurent let out a small breath, then turned his attention back to the fountain. “I have trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places.”

“It makes sense why you travel so little,” Torveld replied, coming to a stop near Laurent’s right shoulder.

Laurent closed his eyes a moment. “There are other reasons, of course.”

“Of course,” Torveld echoed, then said, “I know this is about Akielos.”

Laurent looked at him slowly, carefully. “What do you mean?”

“Our position to remain neutral. I am aware you and Auguste were friends with the crown prince Damianos, and the bitterness runs deep toward Patras for our refusal to aid him.”

Laurent fought back the well of pain springing to life as he shook his head. “I could no more blame you than I could blame our own kingdom. My father, too, refused them aid. Just weeks before the crown prince was struck,” he had to stop as his voice broke, “struck down.”

Torveld nodded sagely. “I should have liked to have met him, Prince Damianos. Like the rumours you believed about Patras were false, I like to think the ones about him were as well. He was surely a better man for King than his brother whose let his country fall to the flames of civil war.”

“He was a good man. Kind, clever, strong.” Laurent breathed through the pain once more. “His lack of hearing impaired nothing, but people were afraid. Leaders were afraid. Which is why they were weaker than he was. Kastor struck him down without honour.”

Torveld said nothing for some time, then he said, “Your intentions here are not to court me, or allow yourself to be courted.”

It was not a question, but all the same, Laurent felt compelled to answer with honesty. “That is true.” He saw the flicker of pain on Torveld’s face, and he felt some measure of guilt. “The truth is, my heart belonged to another. I do not know if…” He stopped, trying to find his words. “I cannot be sure it will ever work out, but I do not wish to give you false hope. I know my brother wishes for a match between us, and my brother is not wrong to believe it would be a good one. But you deserve better than a fraction of my attention, Torveld. You are a man worthy to be loved.”

“Thank you,” he said after a long pause, and his face looked lighter. “I am still glad you came to Patras, whatever your reasons are.”

Laurent decided not to disservice the prince by trying to claim his intentions were all innocent. Instead he inclined his head once, and said nothing until the prince retreated, and left Laurent to his thoughts.

Somewhere, Laurent thought as he stood there in the dark, the man who could be Damianos is here, sleeping, preparing for battle.

Hours would pass, and soon enough, Laurent would know.

*** 

They breakfasted with the king, and then Laurent and Torveld went for a ride to visit the arena where the games would take place. The gladiators were all in training, and Laurent was able to glimpse a few, but none who could possibly be Damen.

He tried not to think of the carnage, of the way the Patrans believed they were doing these men favours when the rest of the Empire knew—it was just another form of slavery, under the guise of being given a choice. They might have been paid, but they were never free. What good is a rich man’s fortune if he still dies in chains.

All the same, he said nothing. He took in the tour with a sage nod, and thanked Torveld as they returned to the palace to ready themselves. They would be travelling under armed escort, and sat in the royal box as it began.

Laurent’s nerves were obvious by the way Torveld and Torgier stared at him, but no one said a word as they reached their horses and mounted. Laurent gripped the reins and calmed himself. He utilised the time it took to ride to the arena by coming up with plan after plan of how to handle the situation.

By what the others said, the gladiators would have been informed of his arrival. They were hosting the games the way they would when any emissary from another kingdom was visiting. Laurent couldn’t be sure if Damen knew—if anyone he worked with spoke his language or attempted to communicate with him at all. But if he knew, likely Damen had his own plan for when he saw Laurent. And if he didn’t know—Laurent couldn’t be sure what Damen would do.

He needed to prepare for the worst.

He regretted that most of the guard would not be present for the games. They would be stationed outside, keeping watch, and Laurent had to fight back the urge to tell Torveld that Jord needed to join them. It would look strange, however, and Laurent was not quite ready to show his hand.

Instead he pulled Jord aside and said in low Akielon, “Be prepared if fighting breaks out. See if you can secure us a passage out of here without alerting any of the Patran guards.”

He didn’t know if it was possible, but Jord gave him a firm nod and looked determined. Laurent trusted him, and left him to it as they entered the arena and took their seats.

It was close to the battle, high enough to be above the ring, but close enough he would be able to see what was happening. He knew the old stories of the gladiators—criminals sentenced to death would be paraded in front, made to fight starved animals before being ripped apart and devoured. The games had been fixed then, gladiators set to die would be given faulty weapons, the winners given ones whose tips were poisoned.

Torveld assured Laurent that it was rare for their men to die. “It is a chosen position,” Torveld insisted again. “We cannot afford to replace them, and none of them are signing up for a death sentence.”

He insisted they no longer used animals.

Laurent hoped this was closer to the games during the spring harvest than a bloodbath. There was a tiny voice at the back of his mind saying that if this was a chosen position—if Torveld was not lying—then Damen must have chosen this. Must have chosen to let Laurent believe he was dead, to mourn him.

Laurent held back that ache, determined to deal with it when the time came.

The games began with a chariot procession, the gladiators in their thick helmets covering half their faces—mouths and noses exposed, eyes behind small slits in the masks. They were decorated, most of them scarred, but well muscled and well fed.

Laurent’s breath caught at all of it, and there were so many of them who could have been Damianos that he could not pick him out of the crowd.

And then, they were announced. All of them had nicknames—Blade, Whip, Striker…it all sounded a little ridiculous, but the crowd went mad for it.

And then the gladiators parted and the largest of them all took his place. “The Silent One,” the announcer called, and the crowd went mad for him. He watched the gladiator’s head turn as he surveyed the crowd. Laurent’s breath caught in his throat as the masked man froze in front of Laurent.

His heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

Laurent’s eyes focussed on the scarring, the marred lines across the man’s arms from swords, the slashes across his back from a trainer’s whip. Laurent wanted to scream, wanted to march to the centre of the ring and draw attention to the marred skin on a man who should be king. How dare anyone put a weapon to Damianos of Akielos.

But…

He was not sure. And if this was Damen, he still needed to find out why.

The gladiator gave a slow, deep bow which Torveld—and eventually Laurent—returned.

And then…

The games began.

*** 

Laurent thought perhaps he would die of anxiety watching it. The Silent One fought better than most of the men, but he was still human. He was tired by the end, fighting one of the newer gladiators, as Torveld explained. “He, too, came from Akielos,” he said, his voice rising about the roar of the crowd. “He was petulant at first, but The Silent One has trained him. He’s a worthy opponent.”

And he was. Truly. But the Silent One was better.

It took a long time, and a slash across the Silent One’s arm, but eventually the other man was cowed, flat on his back, yielding.

There was a pause as the Silent One rose, and he threw down his sword and approached the dais. It was customary for Torveld or Torgier to hand out the gladiator’s fate—tradition for the royal family to decide if he lived or died after a battle.

Torgier rose, his hand in a fist, straight in front of him. Laurent’s heart raced with anxiety and panic. A thumb extended, then pointed to the sky.

The crowd roared.

Laurent didn’t realise anything was amiss until Torveld went tense, and it was then Laurent noticed the Silent One had not turned to leave with the rest of his men. His hands, shaking with exhaustion, reached for his helmet.

“What is he doing?” Torveld murmured.

The Silent One dug his fingers into the sides, and pulled it up over his face.

There was no mistaking it now, no fantasy, no false hope. As the gladiator went to his knee in a sign of deference, Laurent could see it plain on his face.

It was Damianos.

His entire body froze, his eyes wide and unblinking as they moved to Damen’s hands. They twisted, looking like nervous fluttering to perhaps any layman, but Laurent could read those signs now. ‘Do not tell.’

Laurent swallowed, then nodded.

Damen rose, then stalked back the tunnel to the training arena, and Laurent turned back to the king and the prince. “That was quite a show,” he said.

“Indeed,” Torveld said, staring at Laurent with a frown. “We’ve not seen one like it.”

“I would like an audience with the winner.” Laurent’s voice was tight with authority, his tone letting Torveld know he would not take refusal lightly.

Torveld looked back to Torgier, who was busy with his advisor, then returned his gaze to Laurent. “Come. I’ll see to it myself, and then we can retire to the palace.”

Laurent nodded, and managed some modicum of control over his emotions. It was by some miracle he managed to stay in one piece, and not let the thousands of questions come spilling out to a person who clearly had no idea the man he had bound in cuffs, collars, and chains. He did not want to imagine what Torveld would say or do when he learnt the truth—assuming that this was not a ploy. He doubted it was, of course, with the way Torveld so readily led Laurent into the gladiator quarters below the arena.

What was more, it was clear Damianos was there—at least in some part—willingly. It would have been all too easy for him to admit who he was, admit he had been betrayed by his brother. Even if Patras would not stand with Damianos when he moved to reclaim Akielos, they would not have risked being the kingdom who held him prisoner like this.

So why.

Had he been so desperate to abdicate his throne? To disappear? To let Laurent think him dead.

He was rushing down a dangerous spiral of thoughts and anger, and he struggled to reign it in as they reached the main quarters for the men who fought. It was loud, but subdued. The men who had been injured were being tended to—their wounds covered in salve, hot baths for them to soak. Those who were of sound body were cleaning and polishing their weapons, and they gave deference as both princes passed through.

They were stopped near the entrance to what looked like sleeping quarters, and the guard looked dubious. “Is there a problem, your highness?”

“Prince Laurent wishes to meet our champion,” Torveld said.

The guard frowned. “But he cannot…you know. There is no sense in…”

Laurent cleared his throat. “You think he has no means of communication?”

“He understands basic gestures,” the guard said, flushing slightly. “But he’s not capable of complex language and thought…”

“I think if you were to pull your head out of your ass,” Laurent snapped, “you might be aware that one does not need to speak or hear to be capable of complex thought. Leaders have been deaf before. Surely you know this.”

“I…” the guard said.

“If you’d kindly step aside,” Torveld replied, and the guard quickly obeyed. In the corridor, Torveld stopped. “Is he so much like your fallen friend?”

“Something like that,” Laurent said, barely restrained. “I would like time with him. You said he came from Damianos’ household directly.”

“I’m not sure your brother would appreciate me having you in a room with a man whose method of survival is violence,” Torveld said hesitantly.

Laurent reached out, touching his arm. “And I would ask you to trust me. I would not so readily put my life in danger.”

Torveld didn’t seem sure, but there was no more room to argue. He sighed, then led the way down the corridor to the room at the far end. The door was cracked, and Laurent’s heart sped up as he could see the shadow of movement.

“I will stand guard, should you need me.”

Laurent nodded, then brushed past him, into the room, and froze just after closing the door. It was large, lavish—though nothing compared to royal accommodations. It made something twist unpleasantly in Laurent’s stomach.

The feeling was eclipsed, however, by the sight of Damen in front of him. Damen at a small, scrubbed wooden table applying salve to a wound on his shoulder. His dark eyes were bright, almost nervous as they locked onto Laurent’s face.

‘I didn’t tell them who you are,’ Laurent signed.

Damen raised his hands to reply, then shock took over and he rose, though he didn’t take a step closer. ‘You’re signing.’

Laurent lifted his chin. ‘You sent me Erasmus.’

Damen’s face rushed through several emotions before he swallowed, then nodded. ‘He’s alive.’

‘Unlike you,’ Laurent signed, his words snapping with his anger. ‘I mourned you. We all mourned you. You left me, you left me and…’

He was no longer able to sign when Damen stalked forward and clasped his hands over Laurent’s wrists. His eyes were wide, wet, imploring, begging for forgiveness that Laurent wasn’t sure he was ready to give. Not just yet.

He managed to free one of his hands, lifting it to half sign, ‘Tell me why.’

Damen’s breath left his chest in a rush, and with reluctance he pulled away, then walked to his bed. Laurent watched with curiosity as Damen lifted the corner of his mattress, then produced a small, tattered bit of parchment that had been folded and unfolded so many times, the writing was faded.

But it was clear. Clear enough for Laurent to read and make immediate sense of the moment he had it in his hands. The meaning was clear, the cleverness of Jokaste’s plan. She had known him too well, she had hit him right where it hurt. Her sword was pressed against his artery, and one wrong move would bleed him dry.

There was nothing left to be done. ‘You must come with me,’ Laurent said after passing the paper back to Damen. ‘As a gladiator. You must remain dead, and return to Vere. After that, we will gather people we trust.’

‘And do what?’ Damen asked.

Laurent lifted his chin higher, meeting Damen’s eyes without a hint of hesitation. ‘We will obtain your son, and then we will enter Akielos together…and we will take down your brother.’

*** 

Damen paced his rooms, his skin humming with a nervous energy. Laurent had stayed an agonising near-hour where Damen had not yet been brave enough to touch him apart from the single moment he’d silenced his hands.

Damen wanted to do everything—to throw him down and kiss him, make love to him until they couldn’t feel the pain of separation any longer—then ride out of Patras to regain his kingdom. But none of that would happen that way. Laurent was angry—he was hurt and torn, and Damen had to understand. And riding out was not so easy when he had to maintain his cover.

Watching Laurent’s hands move through his language, a way of speaking between them now they hadn’t had when Damen first left Vere was heady, it was distracting. But he forced himself to pay attention, to give Laurent the courtesy of being heard because his mind was clever, and he was already working through his plans.

‘We can trust Torveld,’ he insisted, staring at Damen who had taken a seat across the room. ‘He will not want the embarrassment of having kept a crown prince as a gladiator—in cuffs and a collar—and he will let you go if we can give him incentive.’

‘We absolve him of this,’ Damen signed.

Laurent nodded. ‘I want to tear this kingdom apart for what they have done to you.’ His hands stilled, and Damen knew Laurent’s gaze was raking over the scars on his body. He had never cared much about them—never considered them until now, until he wondered what Laurent might think every time he saw them. But there was no time to discuss it. ‘We must act cleverly. We must ride back to Vere without you being discovered. Leave it to me.’

Damen was, by nature, a leader, and putting his fate into the hands of another was almost too much to bear. But if he were to trust anyone, it would be Laurent. ‘We must take the Akielon Pallas with us,’ was the only thing he insisted. ‘I will not leave him behind.’

Laurent gave him a long, cool stare before he pushed away from the wall. ‘Trust me. I will return before the night’s out.’

And then he was gone, and Damen was forced to wait in worry and silence for Laurent to do the impossible—to free the rightful Akielon king from his chains, without letting anyone in the kingdom know the truth.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are about four more chapters to this fic--three main chapters, and then the epilogue. I promise to update this as quick as I can, but my lectures start tomorrow so I'll be slower than before. However I wanted to at least get this bit out, because I didn't wnat to leave it before they were reunited properly.
> 
> I'll answer comments as soon as I can, but just know I read and loved and appreciated every single one of them. All of you are so wonderful <3 <3

Leaving Damen behind in the small room was possibly the most difficult thing Laurent had ever done. His entire being clamoured to turn round, to rush through the room, to never let Damen further than arm’s reach again. But he knew what he had to do.

Stepping into the corridor, he was unsurprised to find Torveld missing. Unconcerned, he navigated back through the maze of hallways, and out into the open where he found the prince giving orders to a guard. He turned, surprise on his face as he saw Laurent there, and he waved the man off.

“I thought you might…be taking your time,” he said slowly.

Laurent could hear the implications in his tone, and nearly corrected him. But there was no time. “My guard. Jord. Can you send for him, please? And then you and I must talk.”

The gravity of Laurent’s voice seemed to affect the prince, who wasted no time in sending for Jord, who appeared moments later, flanked by Lazar. He gave a deep bow to both princes, and didn’t resist when Laurent pulled him out of earshot.

“It is him.”

Jord blinked, and faint pink rose high in his cheeks. “Forgive me, your highness but…are you certain?”

“I have just left his rooms,” Laurent said, and he saw the truth hit Jord like a sack of brick. “Find thee men to send ahead as messengers. Separate, in case someone from Akielos has this place watched. Get word to Nikandros. Damen and the other Akielon will be coming with us.”

“Does the prince know…”

“No,” Laurent answered sharply. “No one must know. Have the messengers tell Nikandros only that he must meet us in Arles. Give nothing away. If anyone finds out Damen is alive, it will spark war—which we are unprepared for.”

Jord gave a deep bow, and as he walked away, Laurent could see him attempting to keep calm in his step. When he and Lazar had disappeared, Laurent turned toward Torveld who was watching with a keen, curious eye. He let out a small sigh, and approached.

“Where can we speak that we will not be overheard. Not by servant, not by guard.”

Torveld’s brow furrowed with worry, but he beckoned Laurent along anyway. 

*** 

The room was off of the arena, the walls thick, the corridor bare. Torveld’s men were placed at the entrance for protection, but other than that, they were alone. Laurent paced as Torveld sat in a chair, watching, and his brain tried to work it all out in a way that would not send the Patran prince running to tell the world what he had locked in chains.

“Patras has been skilled in avoiding war for many years,” Laurent began, turning toward him. “Your army isn’t as strong as you like, and your border defences are weak.”

Torveld licked his lips. “We have made no claim otherwise.”

“No kingdom offering you alliance has been able to sway you, because they lack sufficient protection. It’s also why you refused the Akielon request to meet and discuss potential aid before the crown prince and king were murdered.”

Torveld’s face flushed. “I…yes.”

Laurent nodded. “Then it is with no joking matter that I tell you what is said in this room must remain just that—in this room. Your brother must not know—not a single guard must know. Should this information get out, you will have armies from more than one neighbouring kingdom at your door to take revenge for a very serious perceived offense.”

“Laurent,” Torveld said, sounding a little frightened and helpless.

“Prince Damianos of Akielos is not dead.”

Laurent watched carefully as the impact of that statement hit Torveld. He was a clever man—a strategist who had spent most of his life keeping Patras flourishing. Without his help, Torgier would have failed as king.

“The Silent One…”

“It was a ploy of a woman, who now sits at the right hand of Kastor,” Laurent said, feeling terrified that anyone should know this information. “I cannot give you more details, only that your kingdom was deceived when it received a gift of an Akielon warrior.”

“If he is…” Torveld swallowed thickly, his tone telling Laurent that in spite of his questions, he believed, “…why did he never say…”

“He was silenced by the same woman,” Laurent said. “And remained silent until he had aid to escape without anyone else knowing who he is.”

Torveld blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are going to release both Akielons into my possession. We shall call it a trade, or a gift. You will say nothing about the identity of the gladiator, and in return Vere and Akielos—once the rightful king has been crowned—will offer you a treaty of protection, should the need ever arise. And Patras will be forgiven the crime of having put a king in chains.”

Torveld swallowed thickly as the impact of the words hit him. Laurent knew he had nowhere to go with this, no grounds to stand on, and nothing to negotiate with. If he refused and attempted to keep the gladiator, Damianos would reveal himself and war would spark. Even those not an ally of Akielos would take offense to Patras putting a member of a royal family in chains. Whatever reputation of neutrality or peace they had achieved until now, would be destroyed.

“It will be difficult. He is favoured in Patras, and his disappearance will not go unnoticed. Then, when he is revealed to be king, many will not forgive us, even if Akielos will.”

Laurent breathed, thinking quick on his feet. “Damianos will likely claim he willingly chose to hide in plain sight, in order to get the upper hand on Kastor. It is not the Akielon way, but when you are engaged to a Veretian snake…”

“Engaged,” Torveld echoed quietly.

Laurent bowed his head. “This is not easy for me, you understand. I thought him dead—these long months, I thought him dead. I mourned him, determined to see the end of my life alone. And then here he is. In cuffs and a collar—body scarred from the whips of trainers…” His voice took on a hard note when he thought what Damen had suffered through, and he could see the horror mirrored on Torveld’s face when he realised that the rightful king of Akielos had been treated like a gladiator.

It was proof positive that they were not free men, as the Patrans so liked to believe. It was proof positive, because now a king had suffered it.

“I will tell everyone that the Akielons are travelling to Vere to learn a new fighting technique, to bring back to Patras. It will buy you six weeks before anyone starts asking questions. My brother will not be pleased but…I can convince him.” Torveld swallowed thickly again, then pushed up from his seat. “Can you…is there a way to…speak to him.”

Laurent glanced down at his hands, then nodded. “I can translate the conversation. I am still slow, still learning, but it’s the best we can do for now.”

Torveld squared his shoulders, trying to look braver than he felt, then opened the door and gestured Laurent out.

*** 

Damen did his best to remain calm through the talk with Torveld. He could see the apologetic nature of the man, the regret on his face—though Damen had to suppose he more regretted the fact that someone he found to be of equal standing received the treatment the other gladiators did. Damen wanted to move this along, and so did not spend his time berating Torveld, but accepting his alliance and assuring him he agreed with whatever terms Laurent had set.

Laurent, for his part, was good with his signs. Erasmus had taught him well, and although there were gaps, the conversation flowed well enough. It was only mildly distracting to watch Laurent’s slender fingers, to think of them touching Damen again.

But that would not happen straight away.

‘You and the other Akielon will be released from your collar and cuffs in secret,’ Laurent explained after Torveld went to make the announcement that he and Pallas would be travelling to Vere. ‘We will spend one more sleep here in Patras, and then we will leave. No one knows about you except Torveld and Jord. Both will keep the secret. Jord has sent for Nikandros to meet us in the capital.’

Damen bowed his head, and before he could ask for Laurent to come close, to take him in his arms, Laurent was gone. Damen was escorted shortly after, with Pallas by his side. It was clear nothing had been explained to the other Akielon, who looked only terrified by the men flanking them on either side.

Before reaching the castle, Damen reached over and touched Pallas on the arm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said in Akielon, knowing his voicing was rusty, but doing his best. “We are safe.”

Pallas swallowed, then nodded, and did not protest when they were separated.

Damen was taken down a dark hallway, then into a room where a blacksmith waited. The man was plain-faced, and didn’t attempt to make conversation as he struck the collar and the cuffs from his body. Damen breathed a little easier when it was done. He had no idea if Laurent had some plan forming, no idea what the next day might hold for him, but he felt relief knowing he was one step closer to reclaiming his kingdom.

When he was free, another guard appeared to escort him. Damen prickled at being treated that way, however he reminded himself he was still incognito. No one knew he was the prince. They merely thought he was a gift to the Veretians, a student who would learn their fighting technique and return to amuse those of Patras with their dance-like sword-play.

So he kept his temper in check, and didn’t attempt to question anything when he was led into the baths. He was only startled when he realised the room was empty save for one person. The shock of blonde hair and exposed skin made Damen take a step back, but he recovered quickly as his eyes locked on Laurent’s.

‘I asked them to leave us,’ Laurent said, his fingers slow, still a little clumsy, but also more perfect than anything Damen had ever seen.

‘Are you to attend me?’

He saw the laugh shake Laurent’s shoulders, his head shaking back and forth, but he approached all the same. Damen thought perhaps Laurent was angry with him—would remain so for some time. It would only be fitting for how long Laurent had mourned him. Damen couldn’t imagine how he might feel were the situations reversed.

But he was not about to protest when Laurent’s hands came up, when his thin fingers trailed along the new marring of his skin, the scars shades paler than the brown. He knew many criss-crossed along his back, and there were nicks from sword gashes along his ribs.

Laurent’s brows were dipped in a frown as he took it all in. His lips moved with words Damen couldn’t understand, but when he reached out to touch Laurent’s throat, it was still. He was mouthing curses, Damen supposed.

Laurent’s face lifted and their gazes connected again. Damen couldn’t stop himself from raising a hand to Laurent’s cheek, from palming it, feeling the warmth against him. There had been many nights Damen wondered if he’d ever get to do this again, and he was afraid to let a single moment go unappreciated now.

Curling his fingers round Damen’s wrist, Laurent took a step forward, crowding completely into Damen’s space. Their bodies touched, warm at the points of contact on the thighs, the belly, the chest. Damen stooped lower, pushing in, his forehead resting against Laurent’s, their noses nuzzling against each other’s. He could feel Laurent’s hot breath.

Before they could kiss, before Damen could give in to that desire, he felt something warm and wet against his hand. He realised Laurent was crying—not ugly, wracking sobs, but a steady stream of tears from his bright eyes.

Damen quickly raised his other hand, brushing them away with his thumbs, his head shaking back and forth. “No,” he said, murmuring it in the Veretian way. He leant in then, waiting for assent, and when Laurent turned his face toward Damen’s, he laid kisses upon him. Slow, pressing pecks, across his plush lips, across his wet, flame-hot cheeks, along his jaw, at the rapid pulse in his neck.

He could feel the way Laurent’s breath shook, the way his body caved into his, the way Laurent’s hands scrabbled for purchase, almost desperate in a way. It had been too long—far too long—and Damen felt it too. He pulled back, one hand still cupping Laurent’s face.

When their eyes locked, he could see Laurent’s want, the forgiveness for everything that occurred, for the choices Damen had to make. It was then he gave Laurent the kiss he’d been desperate to give—slow, open-mouthed, his tongue soft but persistent as it dragged along Laurent’s, hot and slick. He could feel the vibration of Laurent’s moan against his mouth, and he groaned back, feeling it rip from his chest. He didn’t care how loud, who might hear him then. All he cared about was that he had Laurent in his arms, and no one was taking that from him.

Somehow, in their tangle of limbs and desire not to be apart for a single moment, Laurent somehow manoeuvred them to the standing basin where they washed—gentle with hands and perfumed soaps. The soaking pool was hot, making Laurent’s skin instantly go pink, and he wasted no time climbing into Damen’s lap and letting their bodies converse where their hands were too busy to form words.

Release was imminent, taking what felt like only seconds, and then they climbed out to dry off. They wrapped in silk dressing gowns, and Laurent took his fingers, pulling him through the corridors, toward the rooms. Damen was uncertain at first, but realised it merely looked like the Veretian prince was amusing himself with one of the gladiators. Damen as a younger man had fucked plenty of athletes who travelled to Ios, and in a way, it was expected.

The rooms were cool, and the bed even softer than the one Damen had been gifted for his hard work in the arena. But he was not distracted by that at first. Instead he pushed Laurent against the wall, his mouth going for his neck again, a slow drag of closed lips, then a sucking kiss just under his ear. Their bodies were spent, but the desire to touch hadn’t dimmed, and Laurent let Damen carry on for a while before pushing back.

Damen could see business in his eyes after that, and he let out a reluctant sigh as he moved for the bed, letting Laurent call out for food and wine before joining him.

‘I’m sorry, I’m still slow,’ Laurent signed. ‘Erasmus is a good teacher.’

‘You are a good pupil,’ Damen told him. He could not explain the intense relief it was to talk again, to never see the crude pantomimes of simple gestures, the assumptions on another man’s face that Damen was not capable of complex thought. He wanted to take Laurent’s hands and kiss them for hours. ‘How did you come here?’

Laurent licked his lips, then motioned at the door before his lips moved in a shout. A servant dropped a tray with meats and cheeses, and a pitcher of wine before scurrying out, leaving them alone. When Laurent turned back, he shook his head. ‘A young boy from Patras recognised your portrait. Said he had seen you in the training arena with his father, who was a guard. I didn’t let myself hope, but it was worth investigating.’

Damen closed his eyes a moment, breathing through the relief that Laurent hadn’t been so willing to believe him dead. When he opened them again, Laurent was staring at him, expressionless. ‘I would have sent word. Pallas was sent here by my brother. We communicated through writing with charcoal on the walls. I have to get my son out of Kastor’s hands.’

Laurent nodded, reaching forward and squeezing Damen’s wrist tightly before pulling away to sign, ‘And we shall. Nikandros will meet us in Arles. We will confer with him, we will make a plan. We will secure the safety of your son, and then we will attack Ios.’

Damen felt relief and trepidation in his bones. He could not let this stand—he could not allow his brother, a murderer, stand where he rightfully belonged. But Kastor was his brother and Damen had loved him, and knowing what he had to do was almost too much.

And then there was the matter of Jokaste. And when that was over…

‘I want you by my side in Ios,’ Damen said.

Laurent blinked. ‘Repeat.’

Damen did, slow and careful, spelling out the name of the capital, ensuring Laurent understood every sigh. ‘I do not wish another moment without you. If your brother will agreed to it…’

‘Your son,’ Laurent began, and Damen saw the way his face flickered—unsure that his next words would mean offense. ‘Your kingdom will expect you to marry, to name a legitimate heir…’

‘My kingdom expected a king who could hear, and they got me,’ Damen signed carefully. ‘I am capable in spite of what they believe are flaws, and they will see that. They will see that about my son. I will marry for love, Laurent. If you will have me.’

‘I will have you,’ Laurent signed.

Damen flushed with pleasure, and reached out, pulling Laurent to him, helpless to do anything besides kiss him and kiss him. When they pulled apart, exhaustion hit him—the afternoon’s games, and the emotional turmoil after.

He didn’t protest when Laurent reached out to strip the dressing gown from his shoulders, and push him back to the sheets. He let out a hum of pleasure when Laurent curled behind him, one hand resting over the flat of his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. A moment later, Laurent tapped him, and his hand moved in half-signs. ‘Sleep now. Tomorrow we ride for Arles.’

Damen nodded and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, the end of Patras, and the beginning of their forever.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! Sorry these are taking me so much longer, but my work-load for this term is research heavy, and my thesis is definitely going to be taking up a lot of my time. BUT...I'll be working on this as much as I can. xx Sorry I've been neglectful of comment replies, but just know I've read and appreciated and LOVED each and every one. Your feedback and kudos mean the world to me xx

Laurent sucked in a breath and held it to keep from laughing when he saw Damen’s face. He’d just presented the travelling clothes the Akielons would have to wear on the journey back to Arles, and Damen did not look…pleased. He reached out, touching the side of one of the sleeves, then gave Laurent a helpless, _I can’t_ , look.

‘It will fit,’ Laurent promised after setting the clothes on their bed.

Damen shook his head. ‘Too many laces.’

Laurent dragged a hand down his face, making a noise of frustration. ‘People know you in Vere. You will be recognised if you ride in on a chiton. You have to be in disguise.’

Damen reached down to touch the edge of the trousers. ‘I don’t know how.’

With a roll of his eyes, Laurent picked up the loose shirt and held it out as he would if dressing a child. Laurent had, of course, never dressed a child. He’d barely dressed himself living in the palace, but he was fairly sure he could get Damen laced up in the Veretian garments, and he knew Damen would be more pleased once he saw the armour waiting for him by the stables. Jord and Laurent had discussed quietly that morning before anyone was awake, and they had come to the conclusion that the safest way to sneak the Akielons into the capital was to dress them as guards.

No one would be paying them any mind, and although they’d sent a runner to inform Auguste of their early return, and of Nikandros’ possible visit, they had left any promise of guests out of the message. If the messenger was intercepted, no one would know. Their secret, for now, was safe.

Laurent was still trying to come up with a way to enact their plan. Torveld had given them a handful of weeks to accomplish the take-over of Ios, and that wasn’t much time. For now, Laurent knew their first mission would be to secure the child, and the second would be to de-throne Kastor. Both would have to happen within a short time of each other, and that was where it got tricky.

Kastor would not be without heavy guard, and Laurent knew that they would have to do this in secret, so any hope of back-up or guard was out of the question. They could not storm Akielos with an army.

And there was no time to attempt to contact any potential allies Damiano might have.

It was not much of a plan at all, really. But Laurent did his best thinking at home, so he merely tried to remain calm until they got there.

For his part, Damen was less-than helpful when it came to the clothes, but even with Laurent’s struggles, he was eventually laced up tight. Laurent pushed him in front of the polished mirror, and Damen turned from side to side, pulling a face as he stared at himself.

It was true—he did look entirely strange, and Laurent found it almost criminal that his gorgeous body be covered by so much cloth. But it was a good disguise. Although it didn’t change his face, no one would look at a man dressed like this and assume he was in any way related to the now-dead prince of Akielos.

‘I look like a wall tapestry,’ Damen’s fingers signed shortly.

Laurent covered his mouth as he laughed, his eyes squinted with mirth, and he took a step into Damen’s space. Instantly, arms came round him, massive hands cupping Laurent by the waist, and his laughter died in favour of a sharp breath, and then a slight groan as Damen reached up, lifted his chin, and kissed him.

They pulled apart not too long after, their envoy ready to ride out before they would have time to get Damen back out of the clothes, and then in them again. He could hear the sigh of disappointment when Laurent stepped away, but his face softened when Laurent twisted their fingers together and squeezed.

‘We will be home soon,’ Laurent said.

Damen didn’t bother to correct Laurent that Vere was not home. Not his home, at any rate. And part of him hoped that eventually, once all this was over, Laurent might call the warm coast of Damen’s childhood, home for them both.

*** 

It was in the deep cover of darkness when they stopped to camp. The guards quickly threw something together—no tents, but a cooking fire and mead passed around. Damen and Pallas were quick to help, Damen especially quick to maintain he was nothing more than a servant who had worked under the now-dead prince. None of Laurent’s guard paid him any mind, and a tiny piece of Laurent flinched every time they saw one of the men elbowing Damen, using crude gestures to order him about.

He wanted to order them all to defer to the prince, to respect him. He’d been through enough, and forcing him to complete these menial tasks seemed to throw insult to injury. The only thing that truly stopped Laurent was the soft smile on Damen’s face, and the loose way he held his shoulders, like the weight of being held captive had been lifted.

Laurent, instead, quickly threw himself into the labour—even when the others protested. Soon enough they were gathered round the fire, each of them with a plate of cooked meat and bread. Laurent was next to Damen, trying to keep himself from looking too much, and touching too much. Instead he focused across where Jord was sat, staring at his plate with a frown. Or next to him where Lazar was shoulder-to-shoulder with Pallas. Neither of them spoke each other’s language, but they used the meal for a lesson, and both were chuckling.

Then he looked at Damen, quick and careful, and found him staring up at the tops of the trees, the few spaces between the thick nestle of leaves which showed the stars.

Laurent wanted to kiss him.

Instead he finished his meal, then excused himself to the bank of the creek to wash. He had just finished cooling his face when he heard a noise, and turned, expecting to see Damen, but found Jord instead. His guard looked troubled, and he didn’t hesitate when he stepped forward.

“Your highness…”

Laurent wanted to tell him formalities were so unnecessary on the road, in the cover of darkness, but he didn’t think Jord would appreciate it. “I can tell something’s on your mind.”

“I’m worried. I’m worried what Nikandros will do when he sees…the ah…gladiator.” Jord’s eyes flickered toward the faint glow of the fire. “And I’m worried what’s to come next. And I…want to help. I wish to be allowed to help.”

“I don’t believe my brother will deny that,” Laurent said.

“Nikandros may…protest,” Jord said, then bit his lip.

There was too much to say, and no safe place to say it in, so Laurent approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “When we are safe back in Arles, we will discuss our position, our mission we must accomplish, and you’ve done enough to earn your place here. Nikandros may protest out of affection for you, but he understands your skill. He will agree we need our best men.”

He could see a faint pink rising on Jord’s cheeks, but he was pragmatic enough not to draw attention. Jord gave him a short, stiff bow, then excused himself. It wasn’t long until Laurent had company again, and this time the sight of the man made his shoulders unknot.

He wasn’t through the grief or the shock of finding Damen again, but now he wanted only one thing in the entire world, and that was Damen in his arms. The other man didn’t disappoint. He didn’t hesitate. He merely crossed the distance between them, took Laurent by the shoulders, and backed him up into the cover of darkness.

Laurent’s back hit the trunk of a wide tree, and he let out a puff of breath as Damen’s hand reached for his face. The warm palm cupped his cheek—more calloused than it had been the first time Damen had touched him, but also so familiar, and so wanted, Laurent felt his throat go tight and warm with emotions.

It was too dark to make out much, apart from the slight glimmer of fire in Damen’s eyes, so communication was stilted. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, when Damen lowered his face, and let his nose nuzzle gently along Laurent’s, let his lips kiss soft and sweet along his own, along his jawline, down to this throat.

He let out a slight noise, which Damen could likely feel under his own mouth because he gave a tiny grunt, and his free hand went right to Laurent’s hip.

There wasn’t much they could do there, in the wood, too close to being found out and questioned. But Laurent couldn’t help himself from reaching out, from tipping Damen’s chin up and kissing him, drawing it out and out until they were both breathless and wanting more.

But they could only linger another moment before someone would wonder where they’d got to. Laurent’s guard would be too keen to keep an eye on him, especially in the presence of Akielon gladiators they didn’t know.

So he took Damen’s hand and led him back to the fire, where they’d lay, unable to touch, until morning.

*** 

The approach to Arles happened when the sun was high, three days after setting out from the border of Patras. They were on high alert, but the runners they’d sent ahead saw no signs of enemy forces, and their approach to the capital was met with no resistance.

Damen had been on edge the entire time, convinced that word would get back to Jokaste, and she would spill the entire story to Kastor—sending what was left of his army he could spare to Arles to finish the job he thought I’d completed. But none of it happened.

The most was that Damen and Pallas donned Veretian guard helmets, obscuring their faces, and then they left with Jord to enter the palace through the back. Laurent made his own through the front gates, to meet with his brother and Damen supposed Nikandros, if the message had gotten to him in time. He felt strained, pulled taut enough he might snap given the right conditions. He wanted three things presently—a warm bath, to see Nikandros, his true brother, and to take Laurent in his arms and keep him there for several sunrises and sunsets.

Two of the three, he supposed, were possible now. The last, with Laurent, would have to wait. But he was determined to be patient. His eagerness to get things moving would only cause mistake, and he couldn’t afford that now. He’d waited his time as a gladiator—fought as a common prisoner for the entertainment of others, all to protect his child until help came. And he’d been rewarded for that. Laurent—whom he loved above most others—had come for him.

And now he was within the castle walls of Arles, and it meant they were that much closer.

Once inside, Damen was cautious to remove his helmet, but when Jord appeared in front of him, he relaxed and began to strip off his armour. Though Jord knew very few signs, he’d picked up enough to tell Damen that he would be taken to the baths, then to Laurent’s quarters to await the others. All meetings had to be held in secret. Even in Arles, where he was safest, he couldn’t let his identity be known.

He didn’t protest when Jord led him down dark passageways to the private baths the King and second born prince used. It was a far cry from his own—which for gladiators had been lavish, but for a crown prince had been nothing. He saw the marbled pools with heated water, and the bottles of pearly, scented soaps Laurent loved so much, and he felt a well of emotion in his belly.

He was free. He truly was. Laurent had come for him, and aided him, and it meant his freedom had not come at the price of anyone’s life.

Not yet. And if he could ensure a stealthy abduction of his child, then not ever.

Knowing Laurent, Nikandros, and Auguste were just round the corner, meeting with him soon, Damen allowed himself to luxuriate in the baths, and for just that moment, bask in the triumph of his escape.

*** 

Laurent was tense as he rode to meet his brother, and he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Nikandros stood there looking stern as ever, and not half confused. As he dismounted and handed his horse over to a servant, Auguste strode forward and clasped his brother in an embrace.

“I got your message, as did Nikandros,” he murmured in Laurent’s ear. “Would you care to tell me why you’ve caused a fuss? And why there are two supposed Patran gladiators being brought in to the palace.”

“I would like to tell you,” Laurent confirmed, and glanced over at Nikandros who looked as edgy as Laurent felt. “But I cannot do it here. We cannot be overheard.”

Auguste frowned, but he knew not to question his brother. If Laurent was requesting a private meeting it was for good reason. Dismissing the guards, Auguste nodded to Nikandros, who looked as regal as ever in his white chiton and purple cape. The Kyros looked at Laurent once more, then nodded and the three of them made their way inside.

It was a normal procession, until they reached a more private corridor, then Auguste dismissed what was left of the guards as they slipped into a meeting room. There was one guard left, lingering, and Laurent beckoned him over. “I need you to send for the Captain of the Guards immediately.”

The man nodded, then hurried off, and Laurent turned to them. “How has Nicaise behaved in my absence?”

Auguste raised his brows. “He has been…quite the same, I suppose. He does his lessons with Erasmus without much complaint. Caused a bit of a fuss at a banquet with a fork but…” Auguste did not look displeased by this, but instead amused. “It’s all normal behaviour, I suppose. Why? Laurent…what is…”

“Nicaise was going through my things—nothing abnormal, nothing upsetting. But he found something linked to Patras, which was what I went along to investigate.” He began to pace, wringing his hands in a manner very unlike him. But he wasn’t sure how to put any of it delicately, and he knew that for Nikandros, this would feel much like it had for Laurent. And chances were, he would be angry for not being brought along.

“Laurent, please get on with it,” Nikandros groaned.

Laurent nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but the door opened just then and Jord stepped in. When it clicked shut, Laurent met his eyes, and Jord gave a nod. “All’s well?”

“He’s bathing, and we can meet him in your suites. I thought that would be…safest,” Jord said. Then he glanced over at Nikandros and his face took on a mask of grief, lasting a brief moment.

“Laurent,” Auguste pushed, sounding exasperated and nearly out of patience.

Laurent nodded, then said, “Nicaise believed that a famed gladiator in Patras was Damianos.”

There was an intense tension in the room then, Nikandros’ eyes going wide, Auguste taking a step back. Then Nikandros blew out air and said, “Impossible.”

“I thought the same thing myself, but I couldn’t let it lie. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t investigate. It turns out…Nicaise was right.”

There was a clatter, and the goblet Nikandros had just picked up, fell to the floor, red wine staining the sides of his legs. “What.” It was not a question.

“I don’t know the exact details, only that it was arranged by Jokaste…” Laurent began.

Nikandros took a step, then froze, then clenched his fists. “Are you saying…”

“I’m saying that she managed to get Prince Damianos drugged, smuggled out of the city, and sold to Patras as a gladiator so Kastor could assume the throne, and take custody of Damen’s child.” The words were harsh. Laurent realised that, but he knew Nikandros would not thank him for trying to soften the blow.

“We must alert the troops,” Nikandros said. “And I want to see him. Where…”

“My suites,” Laurent said, holding up a hand. “But we cannot alert any troops. It’s imperative that Kastor believe he’s dead until we secure the child. It was how Jokaste managed to keep Damen in Patras. If he made a move, if he revealed who he was, the child would die.”

He could see the realisation dawning on Nikandros’ face. Nik knew Damen almost better than anyone—knew what the child would mean to him, what he’d be willing to do for that child, and what he’d be willing to give up. The realisation melted into rage the likes of which Laurent had never seen on the Kyros’ face. The offense, knowing that Jokaste had managed to manipulate Damen into capture, kept him in a prison, unable to free himself where he should have been able to. Easily.

“I need to see him,” Nikandros said, his voice rough.

Laurent nodded. “Yes. Let him have a minute to finish bathing, to scrub the arena and travel off his skin, and then we shall begin to make our plans.”

“Which are?” Auguste said, speaking up for the first time. He sounded slightly dazed, but as always, willing to accept the situation at present. “What are we being asked to do here, Laurent?”

“We need to restore Damen as his rightful place as King of Akielos,” Laurent said simply. “And in order to do that, the only way Damen will agree, is if we secure the child first.”

“The present heir to the throne of Akielos,” Auguste said mildly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “The child is in Ios. Likely well protected thanks to the civil war currently raging.”

Laurent nodded. “Which means our first mission will be to find a way to sneak into Akielos and procure the child.”

“The child is already a target,” Nikandros said. He pursed his lips, then said, “Jokaste likely will not have the child at the palace at all. She’ll have him secured somewhere else.”

“Any idea where that might be?” Laurent asked.

“No, but I have a feeling Damen may have the answer to that,” Nikandros said.

*** 

It would not have looked good for all of them to march down the corridors to Laurent’s suites. And as much as Nikandros was all but trembling out of his skin, the desperation to see Damianos and touch him, and prove that indeed the brother he had mourned fiercely was still alive, he understood why first Laurent went, and then Auguste, leaving Nik and Jord behind.

He was sat in the chair, Jord a few feet away from him, and he was attempting to compose himself. “I know this is a lot. I’m sure you must be…upset that Laurent didn’t include you…”

“I will not lie and pretend like I don’t feel the slight,” Nik said, his voice tighter than he meant it to be. “But I understand. I suppose should I have heard rumour that a gladiator in Patras was Damianos, I would have gone. Come hell or high water, and would not have told a soul unless I was certain. I wouldn’t have wanted to harm Laurent with false hope. I know the love between them.”

Jord nodded, his eyes slipping closed a moment. “It was…a long journey.”

Nik rose, crossing the room in just a few strides. He crowded Jord against the wall, trying not to make his height seem threatening or looming. He placed both hands on the stone on either side of Jord’s head, then removed one to touch his jaw lightly. “Truly. It is him?”

“It is him,” Jord said, then lifted his hands and brushed them along Nikandros’ cheeks. They fell then to his shoulders, then wrapped round the back of his neck and held him sure and firm. “It is him, Nikandros. You haven’t lost him. Truly.”

Nikandros broke down in front of no man. He closely guarded his emotional weaknesses. It was a firm mark of who he was as a ruler. It was only during bedplay that he showed a more tender side of himself. But never in his life had he faced anything like this before. Having a person he cared for above almost all others—torn from him, and then suddenly returned like a gift, like a miracle. It was too much.

He could not control the wave of relief and anger and sadness and joy which overwhelmed even him. Jord said nothing, merely let Nikandros bury his face in the crook of his neck so he could let out the quiet sobs without being observed.

He took comfort in the gentle way Jord’s hands soothed him, running along his sides, through his hair. He did not patronise him with false words, merely stood there and let Nik empty the turbulence in his soul.

When it was over, and he was certain his face was dry, he pulled back and pressed a fierce kiss to Jord’s mouth, doing his best to convey the truth of his love. “When this is over…” Nik cleared his throat. “I don’t know what’s to become of Akielos, but I know in my heart Damianos will retake the throne. And I would not ask you to abandon your post, but I would also…I would have you by my side. If you would…”

“I would,” Jord said, very soft, a little unsure what that meant for him, for his future. “I am a man far below your station, and you deserve better but…”

“I deserve to have what my heart wants. And my heart wants you,” Nik murmured, kissing him again. He moved his mouth to drag along the warm blush of Jord’s cheeks.

“Then perhaps…there will be a place for me in Akielos. We will conquer these battles, and then…we shall see.”

It wasn’t everything. It was hardly a promise. But it was something, and for Nik, that had to be enough.


	13. Chapter 13

Damen let out a trembling breath, the gravity of the afternoon weighing heavy, and the anticipation of a long night before an even longer day following. He was in the room alone, but it wasn’t to be for long. Laurent was finishing up business with his brother, attempting to make the palace run with business as usual, giving no sign that they were currently harbouring a resurrected crown prince of a country currently tearing itself apart.

Seeing Nikandros again had left Damen nearly as shaken as seeing Laurent there in the stands of the arena, watching him. After meeting with Auguste and Laurent, he was informed Nik was on his way, and suddenly his nerves had fired up. He knew Nik would have mourned him, would have fought against Kastor every step of the way. And he knew forgiveness for staying hidden would not come easy. Nikandros, of course, would have understood why Damen had remained where he was, why he had protected the child. But he would be hurt.

It showed on his face. The door opening, and closing. Nikandros stood with his back to it, hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest hitched a little with his laboured breathing. Damen made no move to approach him, no move to sign a word.

He let Nikandros speak first.

‘I kept this for you.’

It was not what Damen expected to see. He had expected anger, frustration, hatred. Not an extended palm, and a round, golden pin with the head of a lion that had once adorned his father’s chiton. But it was there, glinting against Nikandros’ hand in the fading rays of the afternoon sun.

Nik stood there until Damen was brave enough to cross the room and take it.

As he plucked it off Nikandros, a hand closed round his wrist, holding him firm. Nik’s eyes were wide, a little red, searching Damen’s face as though maybe he didn’t believe he was real. Damen tried to think what it would feel like, to believe he’d lost his best friend—his true brother—and then to have him back again. He couldn’t fathom it. He had suffered in the arena, but not like this. The thought of losing Nik, of losing Laurent, was too much to bear.

How they forgave him at all was beyond him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he signed with his free hand. The gold of the pin bit into him, and he squeezed it tighter. ‘I had to, but I’m sorry.’

Nik’s jaw went tense, his hand twitching on Damen’s wrist like maybe he wanted to pull away and let his hands fly with the words of anger and resentment. Instead he reached out, touched Damen on the side of his face, then pulled him into a hug.

They parted not long after, a promise to see each other the next morning, to finalise plans for how to retrieve the child, and how to regain his throne. Damen still had no ideas, but he had a feeling Laurent did, and he was willing to be patient.

Now he was in the room, half dressed—his chiton hanging at his waist loose and soft. He wanted nothing more than to take Laurent in his arms, make love to him slowly, then sleep until morning. He had been denied many base comforts at the arena, but human companionship and affection had been the hardest to live without. Especially when he knew exactly what he was missing.

*** 

“…Laurent?”

Laurent’s gaze snapped up at his brother, and he let out an apologetic sigh. “I’m sorry. I…lost track again. What were you…”

“I was saying,” Auguste interrupted, his voice tinged with both annoyance and sympathy, “I don’t entirely see how you think your plan will work.”

Laurent shook his head. “It’s simple, and I’ve pulled it off before. It’s just a matter of…”

“Laurent,” Auguste snapped, then pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. “You’ve pulled it off in taverns and brothels. If this woman is as clever as she seems—and she must be to have pulled something like this off with Damianos—then you cannot underestimate her. She’ll see straight through you.”

“Perhaps. But I’m a more skilled fighter, and I only need a moment. With Charls’ help, I can do this. And I need to. After everything…after how long he waited for someone—anyone—to figure it out, I need to do this. Akielos belongs to him.”

Auguste stared at him a long time. “And when it is his again?”

Laurent frowned. “Then it is. I don’t understand what you…”

“You will be with him. He has made his intent plain—long before he was taken to Patras, we all knew. Father was already drafting an engagement contract.”

That startled Laurent to his core, who fully believed his father would have laughed at the union. He sat back in his chair, his hands folded on the table. “I won’t lie to you.”

“I know,” Auguste said from behind a small sigh. “And as much as I want you here by my side, I always knew it wouldn’t last forever. You’re destined for greater things than being the counsel of a king. And you won’t be far.”

At times, the idea of living in Ios felt like living on the other side of the world. But Auguste was right. It wasn’t really a goodbye, and Laurent would not always be satisfied here. “Damianos must give me twenty four full hours before he attempts to take back the capital. Ideally he’ll wait until he has a messenger that I have successfully obtained the child. And we must offer him aid, Auguste. He cannot fight Kastor alone. Not this time.”

“I will not send him alone,” Auguste vowed, his tone telling Laurent he would not make the mistakes of their father. “But there’s no guarantee either of you will succeed.”

“I’m aware. It’s still worth the risk.”

Auguste watched him another moment, the nodded. “Go, then. Go to him now. Take these few precious hours the two of you have before the world knows the truth, and starts watching—starts fighting.”

Laurent knew he could not squander another moment of time, especially when things were so uncertain. He had regretted every moment he wasted fighting off Damianos’ affections—as few as those moments were. When he believed Damianos was dead, he spent hours recalling every second with a greed he hadn’t realised he’d possessed, and he hated himself for every nano-second he’d turned away.

So now, with Damen within arm’s reach, he would not waste any more time.

He rose, kissed Auguste’s cheek, and hurried out the door.

He made it back to the rooms without any further interference. He told the guards to stand watch, but unless it was a life or death emergency, they were not to be disturbed until morning. He closed the door with purpose, and found Damen at his desk, back to the door, and no indication he was aware of Laurent’s presence.

Laurent watched a moment, as Damen was reading something—letters, he realised. Letters Laurent had written him over the months he’d been ‘dead’. He could see the shake in Damen’s fingers as he exchanged one bit of parchment for another, and he recalled the raw, grieving, angry words in them. The begging, bargaining, the eventual acceptance of it.

Crossing the room without hesitation, Laurent let his hand drop on Damen’s shoulder. Damen startled gently, his head whipping to the side, and Laurent saw the emotion swimming in Damen’s large, brown eyes.

‘Sorry,’ Damen signed quickly as he pushed the letters away. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know…’

‘They were for you,’ Laurent insisted. ‘It’s okay.’

Licking his lips, Damen hesitated, then pushed up from the desk and took Laurent in his arms. His thumbs dug into his shoulders, then moved—a gentle touch as he cradled Laurent’s face. They were too close to sign anything, but Damen’s mouth was moving carefully, just the breath of a word falling from his lips.

His name, Laurent realised. Damen was saying his name.

“Laurent.” Damen’s fingers still shook as they touched Laurent’s skin, brushing over with a reverence like he still couldn’t believe Laurent’s presence. Like it had all happened—that Damen was now free.

Laurent reached up, cupping his hand over one of Damen’s, and pressed the palm into his cheek. Then, turning his head, he kissed it, directly in the centre, making Damen shiver all over.

It took only moments for Damen to come back to himself, to crowd Laurent back, and back, and back until they were in the bedchamber, until Laurent’s knees were pressed against the mattress. Damen’s hands went, quick and clumsy, but full of purpose toward the laces, pulling them from the eyelets, letting the fabric peel away layer by layer until Laurent was exposed in nothing more than a sheer, loose shirt.

Damen’s hand drifted under it, the flat of his palm pressing to Laurent’s stomach, then up along his sternum. He watched with keen, narrow eyes as Laurent’s cheeks reddened and his breath sucked in when Damen’s thumb pressed against a nipple.

“Yes?” Damen asked aloud.

Laurent managed a nod, licking his lips as he raised a shaky hand to sign, ‘More.’

Damen’s smile was soft, but hungry as he leant in and finally took the kiss he wanted. A lot of tongue, wet and hot, desperate in the way it had been with that first kiss after being reunited. Damen’s hands moved from Laurent’s skin to his hair, brushing through the fine strands, letting them curl round his fingers before letting them go.

Laurent wasted no time, the moment he could think, and he went for the clothing Damen still wore. The loose Veretian shirt, the trousers. Far less layers than Laurent had worn, but still taking far too long than when it was a chiton. But soon enough it was pooled on the floor, and Laurent’s back was on the mattress, and Damen was between his legs. It was clear from the look on his face, the night was going to be long.

And Laurent did his best to make it clear on his own face, it was exactly what he wanted.

*** 

Morning came too soon. Laurent woke to breakfast being placed on a table near the window. The servant moved in and out, unobtrusive, but all the same, he was now awake. His body was deliciously sore in all the right places, his heart full and beating against his ribs. He felt a wash of affection as he turned on his side, as he became aware of the heavy hand resting in the curve of his hip.

Damen was still asleep, the fatigue more obvious on his face when he was unconscious and vulnerable. Laurent’s hand moved out carefully, pressing to the puckered scars, new, fresh, still shades lighter than the rest of Damen’s body. They felt wrong under his fingers—not that Damen was less beautiful with them, but it spoke of the crimes against Damen, it spoke of the months he spent in captivity with no guarantee he would ever be set free without risking his child’s life.

Laurent felt a rush of hate. For Kastor, for Jokaste, for his own father who might have prevented something like this. He wanted to fling himself from the bed, take up a sword, and right all the wrongs. It was new for him, to think this way. Laurent had spent his life ruled by his mind, ruled by playing a game of chess, thinking ten moves ahead, letting others make the mistakes of rushing in with sheer force and brutality.

He had never assumed love would cloud him that way.

But it had.

Damen began to stir under his touches. His eyes opened, fogged with sleep and a little weary until he became aware of who he was, and who he was with. His mouth quirked up in the smallest grin—pleased and sated when his eyes locked with Laurent’s. His hand came up, brushing Laurent’s hair back from his forehead and he mouthed the words for what Laurent was sure was the Veretain words for, ‘Good morning.’

Laurent bit his lip, then tried it on his hands. ‘Good morning.’

‘I love watching you,’ Damen signed, his hands sluggish and sleepy. ‘I love seeing you the moment my eyes open.’

Laurent couldn’t help his flush, couldn’t help himself from leaning forward, from taking Damen’s lips against his own. He sighed gently into it, then pulled back, letting his hand drag a slow line along Damens’ jaw. ‘Breakfast,’ he signed. ‘And then we must plan.’

Disappointment flared in Damen’s eyes, but he nodded, gathering Laurent to him for only a moment, and then he pushed himself up. It was time for them to both face the day.

*** 

Damen felt he should be rewarded for his restraint and ability to sit and absorb Laurent’s entire idea without interrupting, without standing on his feet and telling Laurent he would not risk him in such a manner. Because the idea—although full of merit—was mad. It was dangerous. It was too much risk.

‘I don’t see any other option,’ Laurent signed.

Damen’s eyes flickered to Nikandros, who was providing interpretation for Auguste, and then he looked over at the King whose face was full of conflict. Auguste was determined to secure the safety of Damen’s child, and to see that Kastor was removed from power. But it was obvious he did not wish to do it at the risk or expense of his brother.

And Damen felt the same.

But it was also clear from Laurent’s face, his mind would not be changed.

‘We need to know where she would keep the baby,’ Laurent said.

‘IOS,’ Nikandros signed irritably. ‘The capital…’

‘No,’ Laurent interrupted, and Nikandros’ eyebrows shot up as his mouth moved, speaking for Auguste’s benefit. ‘She will not be in IOS. There is too much conflict, and she will not trust Kastor. Somewhere else. Somewhere near, but safe.’

It hit Damen, sudden and harsh, like a blow to the gut. His breath left him, and then he lifted his eyes to meet Laurent’s. ‘The Summer Palace.’ Laurent’s brow furrowed, and he lifted his hands, likely for clarification, but Damen went on. ‘The Summer Palace is not far from IOS, closer to the shore, hidden. Only a few in my family know where it is. It was something my mother had built before I was conceived. Kastor and I would go there when we were children, and I took Jokaste there once, just after I began courting her.’

Laurent’s jaw tensed, but he nodded and looked to his brother. He said something, a long sentence before raising his hands to convey it to Damen. ‘The child will be there. I can see it on your face, and it is the best way. I can do this, I just need you to give me time.’

Damen felt something in his gut, hot and uncomfortable. Fear, he realised, and not for himself. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

Laurent shook his head. ‘We are both taking risks now, Damen. We have no choice. Charls will outfit me with everything I need to outfit me as a lady in waiting. I can avoid Jokaste long enough to get to the child, and as long as I have someone waiting to secure him to safety, it will not matter what happens next.’

Damen rose then, unable to help himself, crossing round the table and drawing Laurent up. ‘It will matter. I do not want to carry this out at the expense of you. I didn’t only hold on for my child, Laurent. In the end, I want it to be us.’

‘This is the best way,’ Laurent insisted. ‘They won’t see it coming. For all Jokaste knows, you are still fighting your way through the arena. For all Kastor knows, you have been burnt and ashes spread to the wind. When it is over, it will be you, me, and your son.’

Damen let his eyes fall closed, pausing to let his breath even out, and then he looked up again. ‘Promise me. In the end…’

‘I promise you,’ Laurent said.

And so it was decided. Laurent would ride out before sunset, and Damen would follow toward Akielos under cover the following afternoon. It would give Laurent less than a full day, but it was enough. It had to be. The moment the Summer Palace learnt of the infant’s abduction, Jokaste would know, and she would inform Kastor. Damen had to take him unprepared.

It was the only way.

*** 

‘I think this idea is foolish and destined to fail,’ Nikandros told Damen as they watched the tail end of Laurent’s carriage disappear.

Damen let out a heavy sigh, his heart clenched with fear and worry. If anything happened to Laurent, he would not know until it was too late. And the one thing he hated most was not being there to protect him if he needed it. He only had to remind himself that Laurent was good enough, that he was strong enough. He’d come this far, after all, and there was no sense in doubting him now.

‘I worry, but I trust him,’ Damen said. He turned to Nikandros fully. ‘And you? Are you ready to lay siege to a standing king, and take the throne back?’

‘I have been ready. The moment I believed he had stolen your life, I was ready. This is just…a gift.’ Nikandros’ eyes were sincere, and furious, and determined.

Damen couldn’t help the smallest grin, knowing that at the very least, he had the best ally on his side. He turned to see Auguste watching carefully, clearly unsure about the conversation between them, but looking just as determined as Laurent had looked before he rode out.

Damen squared his shoulders as he approached the king, and laid one hand on his shoulders. It had been so long since he’d spoken aloud more than a word or two, but he wanted to do this for Auguste. “Thank you for everything,” he said, and he watched Auguste’s eyes widen. “You will always have an ally in Akielos.”

Auguste nodded, then with careful, broken signs he had picked up these last few months of Erasmus teaching Laurent, he signed back, ‘And you will have an ally in Vere.’


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much the end. There will be a short epilogue I'll try to get uploaded by this weekend. Thank you SO MUCH for sticking with this, for every amazing, wonderful comment and kudos. <3 I've had a lot of fun with this.
> 
> I'm working on another Captive Prince fic as we speak. A Stardust AU which I'll be uploading once I get a chunk of it written so the chapter wait won't have to be too long. I'm not really on tumblr much thanks to my tight schedule, but you can still find me there (main blog angryspace-ravenclaw, and captive prince blog itwasseven)
> 
> <3 xx

“You were warned about the foolishness of this plan, yes?” Kashel asked as she glanced at Laurent.

From here, the prince was unrecognisable. A face like his could be painted, dressed up, and turned into something he was not. In this case, a woman. A lady in waiting, and with Laurent’s severe training in the palace, and years of observing those around him, he pulled it off without flaw.

Even in the oppressive heat just outside Ios, Laurent held himself with poise. They were able to slip past guards without a second glance, and were now in the gardens of the Summer Palace. Damen hadn’t the time to explain much other than to draw a map, and to point Laurent in the direction the child was likely being kept. He detailed out a few of the passageways that Jokaste was likely ignorant of, and it was there that Kashel’s women would be waiting. Laurent wasn’t sure how much time he could buy himself, but he had a path out.

If he could escape the guards.

The real problem was, they’d been delayed on the road. A sudden storm had them seeking refuge and they were hours upon hours behind. Which meant that Damen was already riding into Ios. Which meant that Laurent had scant few hours before the guards here were informed of the attack, and then Jokaste would know.

And the baby would be out of his grasp.

Laurent handed over the map, and with precision, the Vaskian women disappeared. Laurent, of course, would trust this task to no other. Careful, clever, and vicious when they needed to be, and the promise of an allyship with both Vere and Akielos would be their reward. Free trade was enough to win them over, and as Laurent had been close enough with Vannes for this many years, and with Auguste’s eye on Kashel for a bride, he felt safe.

As safe as he could.

He dabbed a cloth over his head, careful not to disturb his makeup as he slipped into the palace. It was only slightly cooler, and he wished a moment to look round, to take in how gorgeous it all was. As focussed as he had to be on his mission, a small part of him wondered what it would be like to come here under other circumstances, with Damen on his arm.

But there was no time for that.

He followed the path he’d memorised and headed for what Damen was certain was the nursery. The corridors were wide, with very little guard thanks to the civil war and most of the Akielon military forces having joined sides with the Kyroi who opposed Kastor. It worked to their advantage, and Laurent was able to slip through mostly unnoticed.

He was just rounding the corner when he heard raised voices, however. A man and a woman.

Laurent slipped behind a tapestry, in a small alcove where he tucked his feet and peered between the gap of the fabric and the stone. He caught a glimpse of flowing white fabric, then of long, loose blonde curls. There was no mistaking who she was.

Jokaste.

“…rumours only, but we should be prepared to flee if we need be.”

“Do you know who it could be, my lady? Surely it isn’t…”

“No,” she said firmly, and though Laurent could not see her face apart from the edge of her profile, he could see the way her jaw went tense. “It is likely Nikandros. He’s been nothing but a thorn in Kastor’s side since Damianos died.”

The man flinched, then nodded. “Yes m’lady.”

“Just stay on guard. I’ll find you if we need to evacuate the palace.”

He nodded, and then they were gone.

Laurent waited another breath before slipping from his hiding space, and he adjusted his dress carefully before making his way to the nursery. Damen had, of course, been correct. It was far from lavish, the way a nursery might have been in Arles. The walls were painted light, the ceiling like the sky, and it had wide, open windows.

The cot sat in the corner, out of the breeze, with a few silks surrounding it. The child lay there, sleeping on his back with two tiny fists curled near each ear. Laurent nearly lost his breath as he stared at the creature who was, so clearly, Damen’s child. From the olive skin to the dark curls falling over his forehead. The child had Damen’s strong chin, the long nose, the pursed lips.

Laurent had never thought much about children—not of his own, and even in this situation not what saving this child might mean for Damen and for himself. But now, as he saw who this child was, where this child had come from, his heart twisted. He wanted this—maybe not quite for himself, not yet, but for Damen.

He walked to the cot, taking the baby into his arms and shushing him when he began to murmur sleepily. He breathed in the soft scent that was milk and gentle soaps, and then curled it into one of the silks draped round the edge of the cot, and searched the room for the door. It was hidden, unobtrusive against the wall. But he followed Damen’s instructions and popped the panel open.

As expected, Kashel’s women were there waiting. “Go,” Laurent said, pushing the baby into her arms. “Head to Vere, do not stop under any circumstances. Kill anyone who would get in your way.”

She nodded, then turned down the dark tunnel and ran.

The door closed with a firm click, and Laurent breathed out a sigh of relief. He turned back to the room, looking round, trying to imagine what it would be like in another life. In a life where he stood at Damen’s side, with a laurel round his head, and another country under his feet.

He breathed, smiled, turned to leave when the door opened and a figure walked in. Laurent froze, his mind whirring at top speed, attempting to remain calm and collected as he stared into the face of the woman who had orchestrated this entire thing.

Jokaste.

“So.” She let the door close behind her as she gave Laurent a slow up and down look. “I knew as long as you lived, there would be a moment I came into this nursery and found it empty.”

“You mean as long as he lived,” Laurent pointed out. He glanced at the window, knowing it was too far of a drop. He could take the passageway and likely save himself, but it would put the child at risk. “Damianos.” He said it to watch her flinch. It was subtle enough that anyone else would have missed it, but Laurent did not. The flicker of colour on her cheeks, the tensing of her mouth.

“He’s a fool if he thinks he’ll win this.”

“Then you underestimate him, just as you did when you sent him away instead of letting your bastard false king finish him off,” Laurent said, his stomach twisted into a knot. He was not making it out of this unscathed. It would be a miracle if he lived. “But I know why you did.”

Her brows rose high into her hairline. “Do you?”

Laurent snorted a laugh, inelegant, but he supposed staring death in the face, he was entitled to a little inelegance. “I have met him, he has looked at me with his eyes, the words on his fingers making love to me before his body did. So yes, I do know why. You could not bear a world without him, just as anyone who truly got to know him could not.”

Jokaste’s eyes flickered toward the door again, and he knew it was only moments before she called the guards. “They’ll find my child.”

Laurent’s grin spread. “I may not make it out of here alive, but they will not find the child. Not until he rests firmly in Damianos’ arms, on the dais of a reclaimed Ios.”

For the first time, there was fear in her eyes as she stared at him.

“Hurting me only means hurting him,” Laurent pointed out, and he could see her recognise the truth in that, too. “There will be some measure of forgiveness now, because he is free, and his child is within reach. But deprive him of anything else, and he’ll never forgive you. I’m not going to beg for my life, I’m only going to ask you carefully to consider what it is, exactly, you’re willing to live with.”

“I think,” she said, moving toward the door, “you underestimate me, Laurent de Vere.” Then she grabbed the door handle, and called for the guards.

*** 

Kastor’s downfall would always be his arrogance, his belief that brute strength could compensate for anything else. Which left Damen far more aware of his own surroundings, and far more capable of sneaking himself and a small collection of men from both Delpha and Vere into the palace unnoticed.

Jord was by his side now, along with Nikandros, both acutely aware of the only thing Damen could not assess—the sound of discovery. So far, they were safe. They were in the tunnels which had been built into the palace long before Damen had been born. Tunnels Damen had used as a child to get from place to place, to hide from nurses and nannies, and the ever-present stare of his father who was both proud of his son, and had wished Damen different.

Kastor was in his rooms, being briefed by men. News of their entry into the city was spreading—on purpose. They had made themselves known before slipping into the shadows, letting men glimpse him—letting the rumours fly that Damianos had not, in fact, perished in the takeover of Ios, but instead had come to claim his throne. It allowed dissent in the few men Kastor had claimed to be loyal.

It would ensure they would give pause, when Damen stepped out to confront his brother and lay claim to his crown.

Kastor’s advisors remained, along with the bulk of his guard, but he fled before Damen could step out. Damen would go after him, but first he must do this. Nikandros grabbed his arm and nodded, and they stepped out into the open.

It happened so quickly, Damen could not process—the initial challenge, the shock of seeing him there, the accusations of traitor for aligning with Vere. And eventually the men kneeling and pledging their allegiance to Damianos.

‘You are their king,’ Nikandros told them, fastening Theomedes’ pin to Damen’s cape. They were kneeling now.

Damen swallowed thickly, then told Nikandros, ‘I must stop my brother before he escapes. He cannot be allowed to go free. Spread the word, tell all of Ios that Damianos has returned, their rightful king will rule Akielos, and the traitor who killed his own father will be dealt with.’

Death. It should be death, regardless of Kastor’s birth, because patricide and treason required no less. But Damen felt a twist in his gut at the thought of killing any more of his family. Of killing the person who—for a short time in his life, had loved Damen. Who had stood by him, learnt his language with him, better than their father ever had. And it was only as Damen got older, only as Kastor saw the hesitance in the Kyroi to trust a Deaf king, that he let greed overpower his affection for Damen.

For that, he did not deserve to die. For that, Damen could forgive him. Perhaps that was his greatest flaw, but he supposed there were worse to have.

It happened in the corridor, at the top of the stairs. Damen wanted to call it cleverness, wanted it claim it was only because he knew his brother that he could find him, that he could stop him. But it was sheer luck, and surprise, by the expression on Kastor’s face as he froze at the sight of Damen with his sword drawn.

There was a word on his lips, but Damen could not read it. Then Kastor’s hands came up and he signed—unpractised after this long. ‘Brother.’

Damen felt his heart twist, his throat grow hot with emotions. Fury, betrayal, heartbreak. ‘It didn’t have to be like this,’ Damen told him.

Kastor’s eyes hardened as they fixed on Damen’s hands. ‘You were dead.’

‘Jokaste betrayed you, as she betrayed me. Now I’ve come for my kingdom, and my son.’

Kastor’s face darkened, and his fingers were cruel as he said, ‘I should have killed him the moment I knew he was yours.’

It was meant to hurt, and it did. Damen felt his eyes sting, but he gripped his sword once more, and took a step forward to sign with his free hand. ‘I have taken Ios, and the Kyroi will fall in line. You have lost. I cannot bear another death. Swear fealty to me, and I will let you live.’

Kastor’s eyes shut, slow, and then he nodded and stepped forward. An embrace. Damen caught the movement, however, before Kastor could make it. The drawing of a dagger. Damen’s eyes were too well trained, forced to compensate for what he could not hear, and he was merely grazed as he side-stepped, and used the hilt of his sword against the back of Kastor’s head.

He went down, an almost smooth, elegant motion, crumpled to the floor with a small stream of blood trickling from the wound. It was in that moment, a doorway near the bottom of the stairs flew open, and Damen felt shock rip through him.

Laurent, in a tattered dress stained with blood, hurried in. His hair was in disarray, the last vestiges of paint from his disguise smeared across his face. His arms were battered, feet bare, but he was alive.

He was alive.

Damen flew down the stairs, sword falling by the wayside as he reached with shaking hands to draw Laurent close to him. He dragged them all over Laurent’s body, feeling the hiss of pain under his hands as he touched the wound on Laurent’s shoulder.

‘What happened?’

Laurent’s grin was wry, nearly a grimace. ‘Jokaste. Change of heart, I think, in the end. Or perhaps I was just that good at escape.’

Damen made to laugh, made to lift his hands and say something, but he was unable. His breath left him in a rush of pain, Laurent’s eyes suddenly wide and panicked. Damen looked down at his side where a dagger lay imbedded.

The rest happened too fast for him to process. He went down to his knees, clutching at the wound as Laurent moved, swift and fierce, furious, desperate. Perhaps it was those months he believed Damen to be dead that fuelled him to move with a strength he should not have possessed with his stab-wound. But he took up Damen’s sword, and before Damen could do a thing, Kastor was run through.

Damen felt the thud, heavy, final, as Kastor’s body hit the ground for the last time. Two kinds of pain ripped through him—the death of his brother, and the betrayal that after all this, Kastor still wished him dead.

His eyes closed as he crumpled, and Laurent made quick work of the dagger, tossing it aside and pressing a ripped bit of his dress to the punctured flesh. It was not a mortal wound, though it would be no fast heal, either.

His eyes fluttered open, and one hand came up as he felt his head dragged into Laurent’s lap, head pillowed on the soft, inner thigh of his lover. He touched Laurent’s shoulder again. ‘You are bleeding.’

He could feel Laurent’s body shake beneath him with a laugh. ‘So are you, Exalted.’

Damen felt a strange flush—perhaps from blood-loss, perhaps from love. He was growing lightheaded and could not tell. But oh, he loved this man. He was aching from everything he’d endured, everything he’d suffered, but they were together, and that had to be enough.

‘The baby?’ he finally asked.

‘The Vaskians have him. He will be taken to Arles. Auguste will keep him safe.’

Damen felt the rush of relief, and no small amount of anxious desire to finally lay eyes on his son, to touch him, to confirm him real. ‘Jokaste?’

‘She is gone,’ Laurent said. ‘I don’t think she’ll return again.’

Damen’s eyes fluttered closed, and under his hands which pressed to the stone floor, he could feel the footfalls of men entering the corridor. Someone had likely called for a physician to tend to their wounds. He felt the movement of air as Kastor’s body was taken away.

The bastard brother who had once stood as king would not be displayed as traitor. Damen could not bring himself to do more than entomb Kastor’s body with the rest of the family he had lost. Perhaps Kastor did not deserve such a send-off, but Damen could not live with himself otherwise.

His eyes opened, groggy but full of purpose as he captured Laurent’s gaze, reaching up with slightly bloodied fingers to touch his cheek. ‘Would you call this home?’

Laurent’s eyebrows shot up, and he signed, ‘Home,’ with careful hands.

‘I do not wish to rule this alone,’ Damen said. His fingers were trembling now, with fatigue and pain. He let out a sharp breath, then looked to the side and saw a court physician approaching. He attempted to push the man toward Laurent, but Laurent’s mouth was moving in furious Akielon, likely ordering the man to attend to the King first. ‘I want you to rule with me. Together. Equal.’

Laurent’s eyes were foggy, and they flickered between the physician who was carefully assessing the wound on Damen’s side, to Damen’s eyes. ‘You heal, and we can talk about it after.’

Damen wanted to argue, wanted to demand an answer now, but he realised he didn’t need one. It was plain in Laurent’s eyes. For every ounce of love Damen held for the Veretian prince, Laurent held for him as well. He was afraid, nervous that it would all be ripped away. Damen understood it. So he understood why Laurent could not give his answer now.

But as he took Laurent’s hand and kissed his palm, he knew. This was it. This was forever.

*** 

Two agonising weeks that Damen had to reside in Ios without his son. Two agonising weeks of healing, of bed-rest and kingship duties to piece his country back together. Auguste offered more troops to stamp down any lingering rebellion during the time that Kastor was entombed. Trails went on with Nikandros appointed to oversee sentencing for Kastor’s men. Most of them were executed as traitors, and then it was done.

Vere and Patras offered funds to repair towns which had been destroyed and raided by Kastor’s militia. It would take time, of course, for the country to rebuild itself, and the baby remained in Arles for his own protection.

It was a hot, sunny journey in the carriage back to Vere, and Damen was beside himself as he knew in a few short days, he would meet his son. He would become a parent, and he would do it—hopefully—with Laurent by his side.

Laurent had yet to answer his question, but had yet to be beyond arm’s length from Damen during the recovery. Laurent’s wound was far more shallow, and quicker to heal, in spite of having wielded Damen’s sword to finally put an end to the threat against Damen and his family.

He was there during Kastor’s funeral, stoic but present, keeping Damen grounded.

They spent nights talking quietly by the light of candles in Damen’s chambers, and making love slowly, just this side of desperate once Damen was given leave.

And now, they watched as the gates to the palace approached. Damen swallowed nervously, and he looked over when he felt Laurent touch his arm. ‘He will love you.’

Damen felt his laughter leave his chest, a rough, almost bitter thing. Trust Laurent to know his mind, even when he feared his own thoughts. ‘I do not know…’ His fingers faltered for a moment, and then he shook his head. ‘I am afraid I don’t know how to do this. How to…be better than my father was.’

‘You already are,’ Laurent insisted, and reached up, touching his face, a careful gesture. ‘You had not yet met him, and you gave up your freedom to protect his life. And when you knew you could win, you rescued him. You took him to safety, and you took back your life.’

Damen let his eyes close a moment, basking in the sensation of Laurent touching him, of being close, of being within minutes of seeing his son. He looked at Laurent again. ‘I will…ask properly, to court you. But I want you to rule with me. As equals.’ He was saying it again, as before.

This time, Laurent did not look away, did not deflect. ‘If it is what you want…’

‘Family,’ Damen said. ‘You risked your life for our son.’ He knew the boldness of his statement, of making a broad assumption in such a way, but he could not help it. ‘For me,’ he added. ‘You saved me. I could not ask for a better man to rule at my side.’

‘I will miss Vere,’ Laurent finally answered, and Damen could not help his laugh as he tugged him in, and kissed him, sweetly and soundly. It was all the answer he needed.

They broke apart, moments later, when the gates parted, and the steps to the palace became visible. Auguste was there, with Kashel by his side, the baby swaddled in her arms. They were both beaming, and Damen felt his heart soaring with light, with triumph.

He had done it. At a price no man should have to pay, but he would comfort himself in knowing he had this. His son, his kingdom, his future husband.

He was only moments outside of the carriage when Kashel pushed the baby into his arms. He looked down at his face—the sleepy eyes, dark and staring up at him, the thatch of brown curls hanging near his ears. Damen’s fingers trailed over his face, as though he had to touch to believe he was really there.

He looked up at Auguste, at Kashel. Then he looked at Laurent whose expression was undiscernible, and he stepped close to him. Laurent attempted to back away, but Damen made an impatient noise in his throat, and gave him a look of purpose.

After a moment, Laurent relented, and allowed Damen to push the baby into his arms. The movement was natural, the way Laurent cradled him, the way he looked like he belonged that way. It was enough to make his heart burst.

When Damen looked up again, he saw the figure of Nicaise—the boy who had recognised him and sent Laurent to his aid. The boy looked distinctly unfriendly, plastered to Auguste’s side. Auguste laid a hand in the boy’s hair, and Damen’s eyebrows shot up when he realised it.

Family. There was family, coming together now, on the steps of Arles. It was as it should be.

It was…all as it should be.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I finished it early!

His fingers and wrist ached from writing, his back sore from being sat in the chair as long as he was. His eyes were tired from reading, his head sort of attempting to decompress from the agonising day dealing with Veretian politics. Worth it, yes, but every free second of the day, his mind fell to his husband, to their child, to the obvious absence of them during his day.

He was informed at the end of his day, that both his husband and their child were in the baths. His feet could not carry him fast enough through the corridors, and he was tugging at his laces, out of his oppressive Veretian clothing which he had not yet been able to give up completely. His jacket was shed, and the front of his trousers undone by the time he slipped into the baths. He could hear splashing, the faint rumble of voices, a baby’s laughter as he sat on a bench to toe off his boots.

He noticed there were no servants in the room, which set him further at ease as he stripped off the rest of his clothes and pushed through the doors to the open baths. His family was there—his husband in the soaking baths which had lower temperatures now that they brought their baby along with them. Damen was sat submerged to his chest, turned toward the small, shallow step where their son was sat.

Dimitris, who was now just crossing his first year of life, his name day having just passed with a celebration between both the kingdom of Akielos and the kingdom of Vere. They’d all been exhausted, and it had been Damen’s idea to retreat to the Summer Palace for a few weeks to recover. Which Laurent had appreciated, even if half his day was cooped up in offices ensuring the domestic and political allyship between the countries of the Empire.

His eyes softened as he watched Damen take Dimitris’ hand, pressing it to his lips in a kiss, then Damen spoke aloud. “Say, papa. Say…pa-pa.” He spoke, his words sharp against Dimitris’ hand, and with a small grin, Laurent realised that was likely how Damen had been taught to speak aloud.

Dimitris showed no signs of wanting to voice anything, giggling and splashing in the water instead of mimicking Damen. Damen huffed, and repeated the gesture until he noticed Laurent’s movement in the corner of his eye. His face softened into a grin as Laurent’s toes slipped into the water, then his body. It was warm, soothing against his aches, and he slid up to Damen, kissing him first before leaning in to kiss one of Dimitris’ round, full cheeks.

‘What are you doing?’ Laurent asked.

Damen shrugged. ‘Surprise for you,’ he replied with one hand, the other keeping their son from slipping too far in the water. ‘Wanted him to say your name.’

‘He does,’ Laurent said, and made the sign for father. Dimitris noticed, and giggled happily, repeating the sign. So far they did not speak at home, not with each other, and not with their child. It was good that way, it felt right, and Laurent was confused why Damen was doing this now. ‘Why do you want him to voice?’

‘Your language,’ Damen replied, then picked Dimitris up and plonked him down onto Laurent’s lap. Laurent kissed the top of his head as the boy began to bounce and splash more. ‘For you.’

‘This is my language,’ Laurent said, and sighed, letting the baby hold on to one of his hands so he could bounce harder. He winced as water flew into his face, but he couldn’t help his smile. ‘I’m happy as it is.’

Before Damen could reply, the door swung open, and Erasmus entered the room with a short bow. He had the boy’s dressing gown, and carefully leant over to extract him from the water. ‘Dinner and bed,’ he signed with one hand as he secured Dimitris on his hip.

Damen’s forearms bulged as he pushed himself up against the edge of the pool to kiss their son goodbye, and then he was bustled out of the room as Damen sank back down into the water. After a moment, he slid up close to Laurent, their shoulders touching, then he reached out with his big, soft hands and dragged Laurent into his lap.

Rolling his eyes, Laurent let himself be goaded into several, small kisses, sinking into the feel of Damen’s hands on his back, kneading into sore muscles. He groaned, letting his forehead fall into the crook of Damen’s neck for a long, languorous moment.

When he pulled away, he did so with a few more pecking kisses to Damen’s lips. ‘Why do you worry about our son’s language?’

Damen’s brow furrowed, and he shifted back to give himself room to sign. ‘He can hear. He will learn, and I wish…’ His fingers hovered in the air for a moment in his thought. ‘I wish it to be us that teaches him, that gives him both of our languages. I wanted to be the one to gift you with him saying your name.’

Laurent felt himself flush, happy and lucky in a way he wasn’t sure he deserved. But all the same, he let his hands fall to the sides of Damen’s neck, let his fingers drag up into wet curls as he kissed him again, again, again. 

He could feel Damen’s interest growing between his legs, heavy in the water against his thigh as Damen adjusted Laurent more fully on his lap. He groaned as Laurent’s tongue slipped into his mouth, letting his fingers drift down to Laurent’s hips, digging into the soft flesh there, urging him to move, to rock against him.

Laurent felt his own interest spurring, hot in his face, a rush of pleasure in his cock as it dragged against Damen’s belly. He pulled back to look at Damen’s face, his cheeks ruddy with want and with the heat from the water. He knew they should get out—fucking in the baths was always a better idea than it was in practise, but then Damen’s hand curled over him, stroking him, letting Laurent rock into the circle of his fingers and the idea of stopping was almost too much.

“Yes,” Damen murmured against the edge of Laurent’s jaw. Then his head dipped and he sucked and nipped at Laurent’s sensitive neck. Laurent groaned against Damen’s mouth, pushing his hips harder, a more frantic rhythm. The water round them sloshed against the cement sides of the bath as his body shook, and climaxed.

Damen was grinning at him, pleased, a little smug as he gently drew his hand away, but Laurent was having none of it. He bossed Damen with insistent hands until Damen was out of the bath, sat at the edge of the pool. His cock flagged a moment, the air not freezing, but a far cry from the warm water. It took no time at all, however, for Laurent to rouse him again with his mouth, dragging his tongue along the bottom, suckling the head just the way Damen loved.

He felt Damen’s fingers sink into his hair, curling at the base of his neck, urging him to suck harder, move faster, and he complied. He dug his fingers into the flesh of Damen’s thighs and swirled his tongue round the tip of his cock, and that was all Damen needed. Damen gasped, and his head fell back, and he came.

Laurent swallowed it all down, then let himself be dragged up and into a kiss, Damen’s tongue curling inside his mouth as if he was trying to share the taste. When Laurent pulled away, he let his fingers drag softly against the curve of Damen’s jaw, and then they climbed from the bath and found their dressing gowns to make their way to their room.

There was a small dinner laid out for them, and as Laurent dug through their wardrobe for a sleep shirt, he could hear Dimitris babbling away to one of his nurses. He turned to Damen and smiled. ‘I can hear him. Do you want to say good night after dinner?’

Damen did not need to be asked twice. They rushed through their breads and meats, and Laurent wondered how it was that his life had changed so dramatically. That falling in love with Damen meant falling in love with a new kingdom, a new land, a small child that in spite of the circumstances and the odds, had become his.

Dimitris was in his cot when they entered, and he jumped up at the sight of his fathers, his little hands making grabby motions until Damen swung him up and onto his shoulder. Dimitris settled almost immediately at Damen’s gentle rocking, and it stirred something almost primal in Laurent’s gut to watch this man—this giant, well-muscled man who could take down ten warriors at once with a single swipe of his blade, be so gentle and soft and nurturing with such a small, fragile thing.

Laurent loved him. So much.

Dimitris settled almost immediately, and after a kiss from both his fathers, they crept back into their own rooms, leaving the rest of the night tending to his nurse. Exhausted, Laurent wasted no time climbing into the bed, Damen directly after him. He was pulled tight to Damen, kissed thoroughly before the blankets settled round them, and Damen did little but stare for a while.

‘Are you happy here?’ he finally asked. ‘Is it…enough, to keep you content?’

Laurent was surprised at the question, confused, afraid he had not done enough to show Damen how much all of this meant to him. ‘Why do you ask?’

Damen’s face fell just a little as he pulled away further to make sure his signs were clear. ‘I put you through so much. So many months, you hurt, and I want to know that this is enough. I can’t take away the trauma but…’

Laurent blinked, then reached out, touching Damen’s face as his head shook. ‘No. You don’t have to…’ His fingers stammered, uncertain how to say what he wanted to say. ‘All I ever wanted was the one miracle that bought you back to life. And I got that. You’re here. That’s all I need. That’s all I will ever need. Just you. Just this.’

Damen nodded, his eyes a little heavy and soft. He pulled Laurent for a kiss, drawing it out and out as he cupped his cheeks. He pulled back, letting his thumb drag over Laurent’s bottom lip, then he pressed the sign for, ‘I love you,’ right over the beat of Laurent’s heart.

Laurent sighed, closed his eyes, opened them, and repeated the gesture.

It was enough, truly. The effects of their pain might last—Damen’s scars on the outside, Laurent’s scars on the inside—but they could get through it with each other. With their family, with their kingdom. They were done fighting, crawling for their place in the world. They had this now, and it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last two chapters are a bit crap--maybe a little rushed, but I wanted to get it finished asap as my work-load is massively heavy and I didn't want to leave anyone hanging. As I said before, I appreciate every single comment and kudos and I'm so pleased you stuck round for this <3 Thank you all! You're the best x


End file.
